


Interference

by justayellowumbrella



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:18:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6803839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justayellowumbrella/pseuds/justayellowumbrella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chances are, if the Machine gets involved, the mission is going to get a little complicated.  Team Machine gets more than they bargain for when they go undercover for a number.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... this happened. I promised myself I wouldn't post before it was complete, but I also promised myself it would be done before the premiere of Season 5. I may return back to the comfort zone of S1/S2 when it's finished!

"Finch?"

Static. A hum.

Shots echoed from a neighboring corridor as he tapped the com in his ear.

"Could use a little help here."

" _Mr. Reese. Where are you?_ "

Reese knelt at the end of the hallway to reload.

"What was that phrase you used earlier-" Reese snapped the magazine into place and pulled back the slide on top of the barrel of the pistol.

There was a faint tread of footsteps and he leaned around the corner, firing twice.

A grunt, a thud.

Getting to his feet. "-Something being ill-advised?"

There was another round of shots fired, censoring his employer's response. Reese hissed as a bullet narrowly missed his shoulder.

"I'm upstairs," he said, pausing for a breath. "Need an exit."

The hotel was a maze of hallways. Elevators, stairwells.

Armed Russian mobsters.

It was ill-advised to re-enter the building, if he remembered correctly.

A pause. The sound of typing. " _There's a private elevator from the 1930s,"_ Finch started, speaking quickly. " _Used by General Pershing, MacArthur, Franklin Roosevelt-"_

"Finch."

A pause.

Typing.

" _The elevator took them directly to the lobby and their suites from a underground train platform."_

There was a stairwell in front of him, Reese cleared the hallway and took the door. There was static in his ear, then Finch's typing.

He exited on the fourth floor.

"An exit, Finch," he said. He just needed a way out. "How do I get to it?"

Finch hammered off three suites, a floor, a direction.

At the same time another voice in his ear relayed one simple phrase.

_:: Three o'clock. ::_

A bullet lodged itself into the wall above his head and he spun, shooting out two kneecaps. The two men crumpled to the floor with groans and Reese looked to his right.

A window.

He glanced up and down the carpeted hall before stepping toward it. Peering down.

The alley below held a dumpster. He raised his eyebrows.

He was four stories up.

" _Mr. Reese?_ "

He had once fallen from six stories.

The latch unlocked easily, he hoisted up the window, pushing out the screen.

A commotion down the hall.

The mechanical voice in his ear: :: _Jump. ::_

" _John?"_

He jumped.

* * *

Earlier that night, things had turned with a single word.

_:: Silver. ::_

At a lavish Midtown wedding, buried somewhere in a midst of colorful, tissue-stuffed gift bags and paper-wrapped boxes, a thumb drive sat awaiting pick-up.

Hours into the event, already doubting their plan of interception, Reese had cocked his head as the static word came in over his ear com.

Taking a pause, his serving tray of shrimp puffs and bacon-wrapped scallops abandoned on the bar, he scanned the room.

The bartender eyed him critically-not the first time that night-as his gaze wandered across the parquet dance floor.

A thumping bass. Dim lights and flashing strobes.

His eyes found Finch first, three-piece suit and checkered tie.

Conversing about having gone to college with the bride's brother's uncle's something- "computer engineering, actually"- his employer made no indication of having heard anything. A glance his way, but it wasn't with news or alarm. Just a mutual check-in.

To Reese's left the father of the bride was throwing back vodka shots with comrades. Bellows of laughter ensuing, louder each round.

His eyes reworked the room, slowly scanning. Landing back on the gift table.

He sensed the moment a slight hand lifted a half dozen hors d'oeuvres from his abandoned platter.

"Easy, Shaw," he murmured, keeping his eyes trained past her.

"We might not make it to dinner," came the muttered reply. She signaled to the barkeep.

Reese watched as she gave the ass of bartender a wink with her order. He stayed silent.

"Jealous?" Her eyes flicked to him. A smug smile.

He turned his own eyes back to the ballroom.

Shaw took the beer and appraised him critically with her first swallow. "Nice tie."

The tie in question, a bow tie, had been redone by Finch earlier that evening after his own attempt had been deemed unsatisfactory.

He gave her another look.

Whatever.

"It's the silver one," he said, and she frowned as his eyes went back across the dance floor. "Foil-wrapped, silver ribbon."

Shaw turned, casually leaning her back against the bar. Her gaze, following his direction, zoned in on the small, carefully wrapped box at the rightmost corner of the gift table.

She flicked her eyes back to him. "X-Ray vision?"

"Something like that."

She wasn't amused. She waited for more, but he didn't give it.

"Have Finch meet me upstairs."

"That's your job, busboy." Shaw took a last swig from the beer bottle and set it on his tray. "I'll get the package."

Reese turned back to her with a frown of his own, but she had already slipped away.

He abandoned his role. Moving across the ballroom, toward the circle Finch had infiltrated.

Past the raw bar, the meat-carving station, the two guests requesting more champagne.

At the edge of the small group, Reese cleared his throat. "Sir?"

Five pairs of eyes turned his way. Among them, Alek Ivanov, brother of their number.

Too close, Finch.

He gave his employer a look.

The older man raised his eyebrows.

"You have a phone call," Reese said, for lack of a better out.

Finch looked amused, then excused himself from the circle.

Out of earshot. "A phone call?"

Reese didn't respond.

"We're well into the twenty-first century, Mr. Reese. Cell phones and so forth."

"They bought it fine, Finch."

He waited until they were near the exit of the four-story, two-tiered ballroom to speak again.

"We found it."

Finch shifted sideways with his gaze, then stepped through the doorway behind him. A murmured, "That was quick."

Reese stopped mid-step and Finch landed a hand on his back as he almost walked into him.

A female voice: "That _was_ quick. Saves us some time."

Reese stared.

Finch pushed him slightly forward and then stepped up to the side.

He blinked.

Root.

"Ms. Groves," he managed. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Hi, Harold." A look to Reese and her smile faded, no greeting.

He stared back stoically.

"She asked me to follow up on the drive. It's of… interest," Root said. She looked back to Finch. Before either could comment, she continued, "We have to move."

Reese scanned the hallway. Nothing stood out.

Glancing to Finch.

In his ear, the static voice.

_:: Elevator. ::_

Reese tilted his head. "Elevator," he said, touching Finch's arm.

Root gave him a curious look and Reese ignored it, herding Finch to the metal doors.

She followed.

Pressing the button. A ding as the elevator doors opened.

They stepped through.

On the ride up, silence. Reese glanced to his right. A question. Finch gave an ever-so-slight shake of his head.

Reese turned his gaze forward again, not bothering to hide his frown.

Upstairs, Shaw opened the suite door. At the sight of the extra party member, a flicker of surprise broke through her expression.

As her hesitation grew, Reese pushed past into the hotel room. Frowning at the sugary, "Hey, sweetie," behind him, he moved to the windows. Drawing the curtains. Peering behind one of them.

Giving Shaw a look.

She made a face back.

"Erik Ivanov," Finch was saying. He and Root were setting up laptops on the desk, moving swiftly, the drive sitting between them.

"Prominent member of the Russian mob. Also a prominent member of one of the largest broadband and telecommunications companies here in New York."

Finch was bringing a series of windows up on his screen, typing quickly. Reaching for the drive, he glanced to Root, filling her in.

"In recent months, Ivanov's goal has been to 'kill the copper', if you will. Abandon the landlines, move everything to wireless."

Plugging in the drive, Finch's fingers went back to the keys.

"Something he's been targeted for, even from within the Russian community."

People liked what they knew and feared the monopoly.

The screen changed, another series of windows opening. Finch paused, scanning the contents. Pressing his mouth into a frown as he scrolled through.

Root waited until he had pieced together a few lines of the code before she spoke.

"It's more than that, Harold."

He glanced at her, raising his eyebrows.

Behind them Shaw looked to Reese, exchanging a glance.

Nope. He was clueless too.

Root spoke suddenly. "We need to move."

A repeat of her earlier words. Closing down her laptop, quickly returning it to a bag that was slung over her shoulder. A slight tilt of her head.

"Now."

Reese was already moving toward the door. Reaching a hand under his suit jacket.

Taking his cue, Shaw's hand went to her own weapon, pulling it out from under her short black dress. Root eyed her with a smirk.

Shaw stared back without a smile, slapping a cartridge into the Glock with extra force. It earned her a wink.

She muttered something under her breath.

A knock.

Muffled from outside: "Housekeeping."

Reese cocked his head.

"Housekeeping," the man's voice called again. There was a quick jiggle at the door handle, the sound of an keycard slipping into the slot.

_:: Twelve o'clock. ::_

Reese took the chance; he cocked his pistol, firing a single shot through the door.

A thud from the other side. He opened the door and the body fell forward, landing at his feet with a groan.

"Mr. Reese-"

"We have to move." Stepping over the indisposed body. "Now." Not turning to see Finch's shocked expression. Shaw's raised eyebrow.

At the direction in his ear, he motioned them to follow.

Pausing at the end of the hallway.

"Wait," he said, repeating the static guidance. Shaw was shoulder to shoulder with him.

Murmured. "Something you want to fill me in on, Reese?"

A slight shake of the head.

"You're acting a little-"

"To the right," he said, at the same time Root's voice came from behind them with, "Go right."

He glanced over his shoulder, back at Root.

"You can hear her too," she realized. A vibrant smile broke across her face.

"Crazy," Shaw finished lowly. She stared at both of them. Finch's eyes shot to Reese, but the ex-op was already leaning around the corner.

Finch frowned.

Bullets pinged off the wall as they exited the stairwell one floor below.

By the time they reached the back end of the lobby, Reese and Shaw had kneecapped over half a dozen armed pursuers.

Across the edge of the foyer. Music thumping from the bass of the wedding. The back exit.

Pushing through the bar of the door, an alarm started to ring.

Reese cursed under his breath.

"Go," Root said, at the same time Reese relayed, "Stay."

He looked at her.

There was a yell behind them.

He glanced back to Finch and Shaw.

Again in his ear. :: _Stay. ::_

"Go," he told them, hanging back.

Finch started to shake his head. "John-"

"Go," he repeated, and he turned back as Finch's words were drowned out.


	2. Chapter 2

Three and a half city blocks, silently woven. The night heavy and still.

In the distance, the sound of bus or truck coughing out exhaust, the hiss of breaks.

Root stopped mid-stride, an abrupt standstill in the middle of the sidewalk.

"We need a car."

Behind her, Finch came to an awkward halt. Pivoting his stance with the pause, he ignored the flicker of a spasm down his spine. Looking back in the direction they had come, his eyes lingering in the empty space.

The street was still, the corner quiet.

No unusual foot traffic.

He glanced up at a camera on the nearest utility pole. Shifting the strap of the messenger bag on his shoulder, the weight of the laptop feeling heavy.

He hesitated, his gaze falling back to the end of the street.

"He'll call."

Finch felt the weight of Shaw's eyes on him; he pivoted back stiffly when she spoke.

Met with the back of her ponytail: any reassurances had passed. She was scanning the street. It was quiet this time of night, a flickering street lamp buzzing above their heads. He watched as she stepped close to a older model Civic, raising her arm.

"Oh, sweetie."

At Root's voice, Shaw's elbow hung an inch away from the driver's side window of the car.

Root's slender fingers were pressing a five-digit code into the keypad entry of a Ford SUV.

Shaw dropped her arm, looking irritated.

"Thank you," Root said after the audible unlocking sound. Glancing at Shaw. A smile, the gentle tucking of a strand of hair behind her hair.

"Whatever." Shaw's words came through gritted teeth. Brushing past the taller woman and slipping behind the wheel, her face a stony mask. She snapped the panel off the steering column, fingers deftly finding the two wires she needed. "I'm driving."

* * *

The elevator dinged as Reese stepped out. Moving down the carpeted hallway, scanning the length of it.

He questioned what he was doing.

He had followed directions to a private floor, nearly getting shot in the process. Keycard access required, overridden by a code in his ear.

Room 1392.

He checked the hallway and started working the lock.

Seventeen seconds, far from a personal record. He heard the sound of the mechanism unlocking. Tipped the handle down.

The door opened. Reese pulled his gun from his waistband before slowly stepping through.

The main room was clear. He lowered his weapon. Listening.

Nothing. Then-

A grunting noise led him to the bathroom.

Pulling back the shower curtain.

The man's eyes were bulging, his face reddened from strain.

Erik Ivanov.

Reese rolled his eyes to the ceiling and then squatted down in front of the tub.

"Bad room service?"

The man argued something emphatically from behind the gag.

"Mm," Reese agreed mildly.

He undid the gag, sitting back on his heels. Ivanov was still fully restrained, ankles and wrists bound together like a cattle roping competition.

"Untie me," Ivanov ordered, his dark eyes shooting daggers.

Reese blinked, expression passive.

Sometimes, you really wanted to save a number.

Other times, you wondered why you didn't let the fates play out.

For Ivanov, the library's glass board had been riddled with faces of potential threats. The man was as ruthless as they came. His rise to the head of the mob wasn't without bloodshed or bribes, nor was his position in NT&T. He had killed his own and probably would again.

Reese motioned to the restraints with a wave of his gun. "With family like this," he said, "who needs enemies."

It had taken two days, but they had narrowed the board down to one face.

Ivanov's eyes tracked the weapon.

"I always wanted a brother," Reese continued, and the man glared at him, his gaze bloodshot.

"Who are the hell are you?"

"A concerned cable customer."

Ivanov growled. "Alek doesn't know what he started," he spat. His accent thickened with his anger.

Reese raised his eyebrows. Silent.

"Untie me."

It was spoken like a threat but Reese rocked back on his heels in an unaffected manner. Giving the heavyset man a patient look.

"I have all night," he said evenly.

It was a lie: he could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance.

* * *

In the quiet of a safe house, the muffled thrum of traffic. Flipping light switches on in ordered succession, a fan humming to life overhead.

Sitting, finally. Staring at a blinking cursor.

"The Machine alerts us to the numbers," Finch said slowly, "but it has never had a part in the outcome."

The slow-burn of heat in his leg, his hip. Root was silent beside him.

He turned his head. "The end result has always been human. For better or for worse."

He looked down at his phone, a tiny pinprick of a dot mapping the GPS location from Reese's phone.

"This is different, Harry."

Finch looked up; his eyes found hers.

"Is it?"

The apartment had an understated luxury to it. Crown moldings, a warm glow to the lighting. Original paintings in thick, ornate frames.

Shaw had pulled close the heavy drapes on their arrival, cataloging the rooms and exits as the other two set themselves up at the heavy oak dining table.

She hadn't been here before, but it was clear Reese had: one of the kitchen cabinets was dedicated solely to first aid, another to arsenal. She used it to restock her supply, shaking her head at some of his choices.

Old school, Reese.

You stubborn SOB.

Finished with her survey, her restock, she re-entered the main room.

"She's desperate," Root was saying.

The table was a mess of cords and laptops. Why they needed three, Shaw didn't know.

Didn't care.

Finch was giving Root a disapproving look.

She held his stare.

"It's about survival, Harold. The world is changing."

Shaw looked between them. Kicking off her heels, she landed her own disapproving eye to Finch.

"If you guys are done talking about the apocalypse...?"

They looked to her.

The typing paused.

"Our number is a ticking time bomb," Shaw said bluntly. She crossed her arms over her chest. "We sit back here and he's gonna be Russian soufflé."

Finch opened his mouth and then closed it.

Shaw raised her eyebrows. She knew the answer from the pinched look on his face but she asked it anyway.

"Have you even heard from Reese?"

* * *

A clock from the main room ticked.

"It was supposed to mutually beneficial," the Russian had said finally. Reese waited and Ivanov shook his head. "Some private intelligence firm contacted me. But I did not agree with their terms."

"Terms?"

"For control of the lines." A curse under his breath.

Ivanov had been building up fiber optic lines all across the city. He owned the infrastructure for the delivery of any cable, internet, or phone service in the city; digital or not.

"They go to Alek. He tried to back out." Ivanov struggled against his ties and glared at Reese. "But they do not take no as an answer."

Collateral.

"What's on the drive?"

Ivanov narrowed his eyes.

Reese lifted his gaze to the ceiling.

The clock ticked.

A curse. "Everything. Server locations, core codes, satellite channels. A digital backbone. Once they have it..."

Reese looked back to him.

The man glared.

"They don't have it," Reese said, and Ivanov looked confused for a minute.

There was a thud at the door.

Reese rose. "Who else knows you're here?"

Ivanov shook his head. Eyes widening, he struggled against the binds again. "You idiot. Untie me."

Reese hesitated. He didn't have a choice. They had to move.

"Since you asked so nicely-" He procured a knife from somewhere in his suit, flipping it open. Going to work on the rope bindings.

For such a large man, Ivanov moved quickly from the tub, rubbing at his wrists. He swung toward Reese, who blocked the blow.

He should have seen that coming.

"You look," Ivanov hissed, "just like them."

* * *

Finch had finished clicking keys and was stunned at what he was seeing before him.

He sat back.

It was an electronic backdoor unlike any he had seen.

Whoever it was had taken electronic DNA fragments from a satellite once leased to the government and used it to disguise themselves in order to infiltrate another satellite.

Ingenious. Whoever it was.

He glanced at Root.

_Whatever_ it was.

The coding itself, its style and form, was all too familiar.

He swallowed.

From behind: "If you guys are done talking about the apocalypse...?"

Finch shifted in his seat, landing Shaw with a tired stare. He knew she was restless. He was used to that by now.

Working with two former operatives had given new meaning to the phrase "down time". Like Reese, she didn't do well caged up while the mission was at large.

Unlike him, she didn't try to hide it in brooding silence and repetitive activities.

In fact, she didn't try to hide it at all.

"Our number is a ticking time bomb. We sit back here and he's gonna be Russian soufflé."

Finch opened his mouth, ready to reel off a response in tune to the _scope_ of this, but then closed it. Uncertain where to begin.

She stared back, unimpressed. He was certain he saw an eye roll as she looked between them.

"Have you even heard from Reese?"

A clipped, "I have not, Ms. Shaw, have you?" barely betrayed his worry.

In return, a stare.

"Don't worry," Root said breezily. "The big lug is fine."

Finch looked to her. What had she-

Shaw scoffed, her eyes flicking upward in annoyance. "I'm not worried."

Root gave a sweet smile.

Shaw fixed her an icy stare in return.

"Ms. Shaw-" Finch started, tone sharper now, but then his words cut off.

He turned away from them brusquely.

"Mr. Reese." He touched his ear com, his hands ready at the keyboard. "Where are you?"

* * *

Reese rolled his shoulder.

Three operatives down. Dressed in suits. And not Russians, duly noted.

Something larger was going on, something more than just a number.

He scanned the disarray of the lavish room and tucked his gun away. Glass had sprayed from a shattered mirror and he stepped over it carefully. Squatting down next to one of the downed figures, he frisked the body, ignoring the groan.

Finding nothing.

He disarmed them and sat still a moment, then let out a sigh and rose.

Pushing the bathroom door ajar, he leaned against the doorframe.

Ivanov looked ready to explode.

Mildly. "Can we try this the easy way, Erik?"

The Russian, re-bound in the tub, screamed something behind the gag Reese had placed back around his head. He had gotten him settled only moments before the other operatives had burst into the room.

"As comfortable as you look," Reese continued, "we have to move." He untied the larger man but left his hands bound, helping him out from the tub.

Ivanov hissed his next words in Russian, and Reese stopped, giving him a feigned look of hurt.

"That wasn't very nice."

A glare.

"Let's move."

The hallway was clear. He hesitated, scanning sight lines.

Chose stairs over elevator.

They made it down two levels before the stairwell door flew open. Reese dove toward the figure, his weight grinding them to the floor. There was an elbow to his ribs, his torso.

Ivanov barked a command in Russian.

Reese grit his teeth together and managed to get his attacker in a sleeper hold.

Another figure hit him in the legs and he rolled onto the concrete, head near the stairs. He snapped his legs up, knocking the other man to the floor and and striking him hard in the back of the skull. He hopped to his feet as he heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked.

Reese took the risk. Catching his third assailant's arm as they aimed the pistol. A bullet fired, missing him, ricocheting off the wall. He broke the man's wrist and the younger Russian dropped the weapon, a cry of pain escaping.

Reese knocked him back to the floor as he heard the sound of the stairwell door opening and closing, echoing shut.

He stepped to follow, gun at the ready, and shots flew as he entered the corridor.

Ivanov was gone.

He cursed. Tapped his ear com.

"Finch?" he tried.

Seconds ticked past. C'mon, Finch.

"Could use a little help here."

He needed a way out.

" _Mr. Reese_."

By the time he found himself staring at the window, he was running out of options.

_:: Jump. ::_

" _John?"_

He jumped.


	3. Chapter 3

"John?"

Finch sat back, staring at the screen, hands frozen on each side of the keyboard.

Waiting.

Silence met him on the other end of the line. He tried again, voice raising in volume: "Mr. Reese."

Root sighed loudly next to him.

"Relax, Harry."

Relax.

He turned stiffly.

There had been gunshots in his ear only moments earlier. A heavy commotion, some clatter. Reese's tone had been measured. Direct.

He'd needed an exit.

"The man is quite capable of taking care of himself. We have bigger things at stake here."

Finch stiffened at her words. He shifted in his seat, his gaze back to the screen in front of him. A slight shake of the head.

"About that, Ms. Groves..."

His eyes trailed the figures. Blueprints for the hotel, a schematic of routes and exits.

One could argue-

She was tapping at her own keyboard and he trailed off, eyeing her screen, her modification of the code.

"Line 43…" She looked up, giving him a knowing smile. "She'd like to change that. And… line 104." A pause. Scrolling. A hum of understanding, another quick edit.

"Ms. Groves-"

Root was reaching across his arm. She hit a few keys and the windows on the screen were replaced with the earlier programming.

"I think you already know what to do with lines 211-223?"

Finch skimmed the command functions. Reaching out to tap down a few lines. He frowned.

"Isn't this fun?" Root smiled as she said it, turning her head to catch Shaw's eye. Her smile sweetened despite the darkened expression there. Undeterred.

"So fun," Shaw muttered.

She'd had enough.

She was changing out of the damn dress and leaving them to it.

"Call me if something comes up, Finch."

"Ms. Shaw," he started, but she was already out the door. It closed behind her with a slam. He glanced to Root, who raised her shoulders in a shrug and gave him another bright smile.

"I guess it's just you and me, Harry."

* * *

Reese had once spent three hours in the back of a steaming garbage truck in Fallujah waiting on an kill order.

During a long night a few months back he had entertained Finch with the scene. Part of it. He'd painted it in an amusing light, the way you could only after the right number of years had passed.

It had been 106 degrees that day. He could still remember the smell. The flies. The heat.

The bloodshed.

On the scale of relative, this was better.

He rolled a shoulder. Peeling himself off of a moist garbage bag, shifting himself to an upright position.

Listening.

Sirens, no longer in the distance.

He tapped his ear com.

"Finch?"

Silence.

" _Harold_."

Nothing.

Tapping it again as he straightened his back. Still nothing.

Slipping his phone from his pocket, Reese stared at its cracked display.

He closed his eyes a second and then shifted, feeling something wet under him.

He managed his way to the inner edge of the dumpster, finding enough leverage to reach up and get a grip at the top of its wall. Swinging over, he landed gracefully enough, letting himself fall into a crouched position.

He waited there, surveying the scene. Even from the narrowed vantage point in the alley he could make out the throngs of people milling in the street. Shadowed in the streetlights.

Some annoyed at the evacuation, talking heatedly into their phones, others frantic and wide-eyed. Wedding guests, dressed to the nines. Others in bathrobes.

Ivanov and his Russian compatriots were surely long gone.

Reese started to rise and then sniffed as he came upright, frowning. Pulling off his suit jacket, giving it a critical look. City sanitation had won.

He tossed the jacket back into the dumpster he had come from.

Leaving the alley, blending with the crowd. The flickering red and blue of the cruisers.

Reese stalked the scene for a good ten minutes before finding the figure he was looking for. He tailed him from a distance first, amusement growing. He watched the man bark orders here, take a call there. Sip from a large soda everywhere.

Never wiser to his presence.

By the time the scene had cooled down, Reese had long abandoned distance. He blatantly followed to the cruiser and slipped into the backseat. Opening and closing the car door at the precise moment the detective did.

It wasn't until Fusco looked in the rearview mirror and jumped out of his skin that he spoke. "Sweet mother of-"

"Hello, Lionel."

" _-Jesus_."

Reese gave him a look. "You need to be more careful."

"Careful?"

"I followed you for almost an hour."

"A little busy, smartass. Some guy in suit shot up the-" Fusco stopped. Son of a- "Seriously?"

Reese raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

A glare.

Reese shook his head, gaze moving out the window. "Who gave you your intel, the Russian mob?"

Annoyed silence. With a mutter, Fusco started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

Fusco's quiet lasted all of thirty seconds.

"You stink," he said finally. "You know that?"

Reese turned his head, giving him a hard stare in the mirror.

"Just saying." The look of distaste hung on Fusco's face even after the words had faded.

Thousand dollar suit, Fusco was probably thinking, and he managed to smell like he'd been rolling around in garbage.

An electronic hum. The windows rolling down, front and back.

"Jesus. I gotta ride in this all day."

Ignoring him. "I need a favor, Lionel."

"This _is_ your favor, partner. I'm gonna start charging your fare."

"I need you to pull a file. Erik Ivanov."

"Get in line."

"C'mon, Lionel."

"C'mon yourself." They stopped at a light and Fusco glanced over his shoulder at the slumped figure. "What happened back there?"

"Where?"

A pointed look _._ "Back there. You want info, I want info. Fair trade."

Silence.

Reese watched the traffic. Good luck, Lionel.

He wasn't even sure himself.

There was honking, somewhere in the distance. A siren, even further.

He rubbed a damp spot on his trouser leg as they moved again.

Fusco continued, "You know that doesn't work, right?"

Reese turned his head.

"You brooding, me giving in. Doesn't work."

Reese leaned deeper into the backseat. He wasn't brooding.

Fusco eyed him in the rearview mirror and he raised his eyebrows in return.

_Not brooding._

The radio squawked with a call on the other side of midtown and Fusco listened with half an ear. Another crackling voice responded.

Reese watched him in the mirror. "Wanna grab a drink?"

Fusco eyed him suspiciously.

The ex-op raised his eyebrows suggestively. "Vodka? The Russian Samovar?"

In their reconnaissance of Ivanov, there was only one place he frequented.

Fusco hiked his own eyebrows at the name of the mob frequented establishment. "You're nuts, pal."

"My treat."

The detective shook his head. Certifiably nuts. "Whatever happened back there, they're fired up."

"Best time to get information."

"Yeah, well. As good as you smell, I got a mountain of paperwork back at the precinct."

"Next time then." They were stopped at another light and Reese was sliding to the opposite side of the backseat, reaching for the handle. Fusco twisted his head to give him a look, shaking his head.

"Will you hold on? Geez."

The light turned green and Fusco pulled forward and out of the traffic, in line with the curb. He put the car in park, looking over his shoulder again as Reese opened the back door.

"I'll see what I can dig up, alright?"

"Thanks."

"And hey," Fusco called. "Guy."

Reese paused, turning his head back.

"Nice tie." The detective smirked, pulling away from the curb before he could hear the growled response.

* * *

The Russian Samovar had little curb appeal but its inside oozed of bourgeois grandeur. The narrow green-and-red tinged room boasted expensive decor, the walls lined with authentic art and poetry.

Reese, now less both tie and jacket, moved to the bar, his senses absorbing the room and its inhabitants.

Sight lines. Exits.

He eyed the menu of infused vodkas, ordering one absently and scanning the length of the restaurant. Seeing no one of interest he studied the doodles and poems that hung on the walls. He felt transported to another time.

Back then it was mostly kill orders and kidnappings. Justified, of course. On paper.

Sometimes he wasn't sure if things were simpler or more complicated now.

"Here, hun."

An old habit, he wet his lips with the drink the bartender brought. Waiting, he took a sip.

"Ivanov?" he asked her.

She was an older bartender, bleached hair that contrasted darkened brows and heavily made up eyes.

"No," she said with a shake of the head. But there was a tell he could read, and he knew she was lying. He could spot the way her eyes unconsciously flicked to the back stairs.

He didn't even have to ask.

He nodded into his drink, taking another swallow and then placing the tumbler down.

He stood, a few minutes later, under the pretence of looking for a restroom. Passing a surveillance camera mounted in the corner of the back hallway, he paused.

"Can you see me?"

He mouthed it, almost in jest, but the blinking red light in return made him rethink his humor.

Upstairs, there was a private room with the air of a St. Petersburg salon. Reese stepped in boldly, mentally tagging his options as he spoke.

He kept his tone smooth but was rethinking the direct approach when he noted the number of eyes on him.

"Oh hey, fellas."

Alek and Erik stared back in interrupted annoyance. A half dozen comrades around them, thick-armed, clearly packing.

Reese's own hand rested near his hip, at the ready.

"I was just wondering if you would recommend the borscht or the pelmeni-"

" _Get rid of him_."

It was said in Russian, but fluency granted him enough time to expect the blow from the nearest guard. Size wasn't everything; he knocked the larger man out with a single return blow to the head and turned again to the group with his hands raised.

"I just came to talk," he said.

"About?" Erik Ivanov stared at him, unblinking. Reese looked from his darkened expression to Alek's matching visage.

The two brothers seemed a team again.

"The firm you were talking to about NT&T."

A blank stare in return.

Reese looked back to Erik.

"I don't know what you're talking about," came the accented reply.

Two of the suited men stepped forward.

Reese clenched his fists. Bracing himself. He rolled a shoulder, fighting the urge to tap his ear com.

Down to the solo voice in his head for backup.

He loosened his hands at the ready.

It had steered him fine before.

A second man stepped forward, he downed him as quickly as the first.

A third, a fourth.

The fifth decided picking up a metal stool and slamming him in the back of the head would somehow be a fair option.

He blacked out, just for a second, and felt himself grabbed under the arms, dragged to the back of the room.

There was a back set of stairs, and he heard the sounds of the city explode as a door opened and the night air hit them. An alley.

There was a cool, sharp pain over his forehead. A punch to his stomach.

He fell to the pavement and the street began a sickening spin.

Then, nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

When Reese lifted his head from the pavement, the world was distorted, the buildings towering above him, black and high. The sky was turning green.

He forced himself to his knees. Standing, shakily. An immediate wave of dizziness. He squatted down again, fighting against the nausea.

Shit.

He tapped his ear com.

Nothing.

Rising. A hand on the brick, then pushing off. Walking, unsteadily. Pausing frequently.

The dizziness was getting worse.

Someone was lifting him up. He was in a car, being lifted out. His arm thrown over a shoulder and he was walking. A sign up ahead: _Emergency Room_.

His head felt loose on his neck. Thirsty. Cold.

He was laying on a padded bed. People were messing with his head. A surgical light overhead was switched on, the sound of rubber gloves being pulled on.

A penlight in his eyes. Checking his pupils.

Something crit. Voices questioning. X-ray. Hematoma.

He felt very tired.

He closed his eyes.

There was a slapping at his face, and he opened his eyes, rolling them up to the figure above him. They were in a hallway. A fluorescent light flickered and he had a distinct feeling he was in a basement.

Propping himself up on an elbow, Reese squinted at her as the headache hit.

White lab coat. Stethoscope around her neck and an annoyed look on her face.

"Shaw." His voice was hoarse.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

A swirl of nausea hit him. He sank his head back for a second.

"You're pale."

"I'm fine." He forced himself to a seated position. He looked around, squinting slightly. It was only Shaw. "Finch?"

"He's fine," she said. "Actually fine."

"Ivanov?"

She gave him a curious look, a tilt of the head. "You wanna fill me in there?"

He tapped at the ear com, not answering the question. Still nothing. She watched him as he dug in a pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

He stared at the cracked remains and remembered.

"Reese?"

He forced himself to his feet as the figure of Shaw in front of him doubled, tripled, then blurred out. She was stepping back, giving him room. He blinked.

"You could have a subdural hematoma," he heard her say. Her voice sounded flat. She came back into focus, an unimpressed look on her face.

"I don't," he said. Repeated it to himself. _Subdural hematoma_.

A stare.

"That's a good look, doc," he told her softly. He leaned his weight on the bed for just a second longer.

She glared at him and ripped off the stethoscope, tossing it onto the gurney. "You smell," she said in return.

He blinked.

"Seriously." She was eyeing him now, unconvinced at his ungainly stance. She started to reach for his arm but he waved a hand absently.

"Let's go." Moving down the hallway, not waiting for her response.

There was a buzzing in his head. It sounded like a hive of bees.

Angry, angry bees.

They were in the Library. He had the distinct realization of not knowing how they got to be there.

Bear interrupted any try at recollection as he scrambled frantically to greet them with an excited whine, his nails scratching across the hardwood floor. He went straight to Reese and ended at his foot, tail thumping the ground as he spun and sat, nosing at the man's hand.

"Afliggen," Reese said softly, and the shepherd fell to the floor, lying still and waiting, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Shaw shook her head, dropping a duffel bag from her shoulder with a thud.

"You should sit," she told him. She patted her leg and Bear went to her, accepting her pets before going back to Reese's side.

Reese stood motionless. He watched Shaw grab a grease-stained paper bag off the table. A day-old pastry was pulled out, the bag crinkling as she tossed it to the side and took a bite.

Seeing him staring, she held the Danish up with a raised eyebrow.

He shook his head, regretting it immediately. He breathed out, moving into the room, vision blurring. Heaviness swam around him.

Fortunately, he knew the floor by heart.

"John."

It took a long time to answer, he knew. Slow thinking, head throbbing, probably past the point of replying.

"Yeah." He stood by the metal filing cabinet a second, trying to remember what he wanted from it.

"You okay?"

"Fine." His voice sounded hollow to his ears, echoing. A voice in a cave.

He moved to the desk. Bear was following, nosing and sniffing at his pants.

"Are you sure?"

The words repeated, echoing.

_Sure, sure, sure._

He sat in his usual chair and shut his eyes. The lids felt heavy, gravelly stars swallowing his vision.

"John."

He opened his eyes. "Stop calling me that."

"It's your name," Shaw said, annoyed now. "Look. Look at me."

Holding his head still, shining a light into his eyes. He pulled away, squinting at her with a pained expression. He tried to rise, but she pushed him back.

"Hold still."

_Still, still, still._

The light in his eyes again. She was frowning behind the halo of it. There was a little man with a hammer now, pounding at the back of his eye.

"Hammer," he said.

"What?"

"The hammer," he explained. The word echoed in his head.

He closed his eyes, squinting against the pressure behind them. Something patted at his cheek, not gently.

He grabbed her wrist, opening his eyes again. She wrenched it back but he held on. Glaring at her.

"Let go," she threatened.

He let go.

"What day is it, Reese?"

"Today."

A stare. A mutter. Then, "Count backwards for me. One hundred minus seven."

He gave her a look.

She repeated, "One hundred minus seven."

"Ninety-three."

"Good. Ninety-three minus seven."

A pause. "Eighty-six."

"Keep going."

Silence.

"Eighty-six minus seven."

He stared at her.

"Reese."

"Where's Finch?"

"Eighty-six minus seven, John."

"Eleven,' he said in a flat tone. "Where's Finch?"

She stared at him. He stared back.

"He's with Root," she said finally. She saw his look. "Relax."

"With Root," he repeated. He leaned back in the chair, legs splayed long in front of him. Still staring at her.

He frowned.

"Alone?"

"He's fine."

His frown deepened.

"Where."

"He's _fine_."

He closed his eyes then, too tired to process it.

"Hey." Shaw flicked his forehead. "Stay awake."

He grunted and swatted away the hand, a few seconds delayed.

Shaw watched him, unmoved, and bit into her pastry. Wiping a hand on her pants. Bear let out a low whine and she glanced at him, expression softening. "Me too, buddy."

The dog was the only sane one around here.

Her phone buzzed. She brought it to her ear, taking another bite and answering through the mouthful. "Yeah."

Her, listening. A glance to Reese, who opened his eyes and gave her an expectant look.

"He is," she said slowly.

Reese was holding his hand out for the phone and she circled away from him, waving a hand dismissively. She tossed the last bite of the donut to the dog.

He couldn't hear the words. He stared at the blinking cursor on one of the computer monitors.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

With a start, he opened his eyes. Uncertain to when he closed them.

Time had passed. There was a cool hand on the back of his neck and it was too gentle to be Shaw's.

Fingers at the side of his head. He twisted, pushing the hand away.

"Did you do this?" Finch's voice floated past him.

Reese would have answered in his defense, but Shaw spoke first.

"Knock him in the head or stitch him up?"

Finch gave her a look.

"Neither," she said cooly.

"I'm fine." Reese swiveled in the chair to face his employer, noting the thin-lipped expression of worry on the older man's face.

If he squinted just right, Finch was almost in focus.

From behind: "See, he's fine."

"How many fingers?" Finch was holding up two fingers, and Reese pushed them down.

"I can see, Finch."

The two fingers came right back up, an unamused expression behind them.

"Two," he said resignedly.

Finch seemed still unconvinced. He glanced to Shaw, who shrugged. Bear let out a long whine and Reese made a grunt of his own: the little man was back.

"The hammer," he said.

"We know, Rainman." Shaw was tucking a pistol into the waistband of her jeans, sliding her phone into a back pocket.

Finch glanced at Reese, then back to her retreating figure. "Ms. Shaw."

"Finch." Shaw turned and held his stare, then rolled her eyes. "Someone needs to keep an eye on the Russians," she said. "Call me if he gets bad. I can always come back and drill a hole."

"A hole?"

"In his head."

"That's not very funny," Reese murmured, giving her a serious look. Finch looked appalled for a second, then doubtful.

"I'm kidding," Shaw said. "Relax." To Reese, she mouthed the words, "Not kidding," and he squinted at her, frowning. "Stay awake," she said bluntly.

He shut his eyes instead, shifting his weight in the chair. Rocking a leg from side to side, to the beat of the hammer. They were talking, he wasn't listening. There was the rattle of the gate, then silence.

Behind closed lids, little pebbly stars swam in the blackness of his vision. The hammer faded and he could hear a dull humming, deep in his ears, the sound of being underwater.

He felt himself sinking.

He started. Fingers were on him. He opened his eyes again, feeling another swirl of nausea.

"Finch." The tone was cross now. He scrubbed a hand down his face, turning his head away from the touch and closing his eyes.

He wanted to rest, for five minutes, and then he would be back to it. He would meet Shaw out, figure out how the Russians were involved in the tech firm. Figure out if the threat to Ivanov still existed.

Still hovering, Finch eyed him critically, as though taking stock of whether he could be bleeding out under his rumpled shirt. He touched the top of Reese's head lightly and then dropped his hand, stepping back stiffly. "Are you alright everywhere else?"

A mumbled, "Yes." Bruised ribs and a sore shoulder aside, he was fine.

No different than any other number.

Finch moved around the table and sank into his own chair with an absent rub to the back of his neck. Hands resting on the tabletop a second before finding their home at the keyboard. His eyes flicked to Reese one more time and then focused in on one of the screens.

He closed his own eyes.

* * *

_**2009** _

" _Wait."_

_He stopped, fingers paused over the keyboard at Nathan's single word._

" _Do we have a contingency?_

_Finch frowned, turning from the desk to give his friend a dubious look. "A contingency?"_

" _Alicia seemed... nervous." Nathan shook his head, lowering his voice. "What do we do if the government decides to abuse this thing?"_

_Finch paused. "They're your contacts, Nathan," he said finally, shaking his own head. But he felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach._

" _They're just people," Nathan shot back. He motioned to the computer. "The power that this thing represents... I mean, who would you trust it with?"_

" _Besides you? No one." Finch gave him a look. "Which is why the machine has been coded in such a way that it cannot_ be _abused. It cannot even be accessed." He saw Nathan's mouth tighten and his own words grew sharper. "It upgrades itself, maintains itself, patches itself. After tonight, no one can alter it. Ever."_

" _I used to be a software engineer, Harold. Remember, back before I became your corporate beard?" Nathan gave him a frustrated look. "Any system can be compromised given enough time." He pressed his mouth into a tight line. "We need an off switch. A backdoor. And this is our last chance to build one."_

" _You are a talented engineer, Nathan." Finch appraised him with a frown of his own, brow furrowed. "So you should remember any exploit is a total exploit. The tiniest crack becomes a flood. If we built a backdoor into this machine and someone else finds out about it?" He raised his eyebrows. "That would be... " He blinked, trying to even imagine the consequences. "Very bad."_

_Nathan looked like he wanted to say something more, but he didn't._

_Finch continued. "We need to trust the machine, exactly as we've built it." He let out a breath, looking at the computer system and then back to his friend. "And then let it go."_

* * *

Finch stared at the screen, hands paused above the keyboard. He shifted in his chair, eyeing the long-legged figure draped in the old chair next to him. Reese was asleep. Maybe.

Ms. Shaw had recommended waking him every thirty minutes.

Finch reached out, feeling a twinge in his lower back as he did so. Ignoring it, he tapped Reese's knee, the side of his leg.

Blue eyes flew open, the ex-op jerked awake. " _Finch_."

"Don't growl." Finch met the glare calmly, leaning back in his chair. "What year is it?"

A stare.

"Humor me. Year, please."

"2013," Reese said, leaning back and shutting his eyes.

"Who's the President?"

Reese muttered something. Then, "Harold Finch."

Finch actually chuckled and Reese opened one eye.

"No?"

Finch raised a brow. "No, that's about right."

Reese closed his eye again, a lazy smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Thought so."

Typing. A minute passed.

Eyes still closed, but he was awake now. "Finch."

"Mm."

"What happened with Root?"

The soft tap-tap of the keyboard paused as Finch pinched the bridge of his nose, under the frame of his glasses, and then shook his head.

He was still bothered by the dichotomy of the mission.

"Quite honestly, Mr. Reese, the involvement of Ms. Groves in the particulars of this case is troubling."

He turned stiffly in his seat, studying the figure across from him. There was a slight crease in his otherwise smooth brow, a tenseness in the lazy posture. He waited a moment before continuing.

"I'm afraid she had her own directions for the drive. Its contents, its destination..."

Directions appointed by the Machine itself. _She's desperate,_ Ms. Groves had said.

No- Machines weren't supposed to feel desperation. But, there it was. Finch felt a sharp pang as he found himself thinking back. Realizing. He shook his head, drumming his fingers lightly on the edge of the keyboard.

Continuing to study Reese's profile.

"And then there is the matter of you, Mr. Reese."

Reese's eyes opened at the slowly enunciated words and he turned his head slightly, meeting Finch's gaze.

"The very fact that the Machine was interfering with our path. I'm just …" Finch trailed off.

 _I'm just not quite comfortable with the Machine directing you_ , he wanted to say, _when I'm not certain where its priorities lie._

Reese remained quiet. With Finch, sometimes silence was the best technique.

"Tell me, Mr. Reese," Finch said finally, "if the Machine directed you to jump from a bridge, would you do it?"

Reese blinked. He was never a fan of hypothetical questions. "Depends," he said finally. Softly.

"Depends," Finch repeated.

"Maybe a window." There was an lilt of humor in his tone.

"John."

A quirk of a smile from Reese, hidden by a rub of his mouth. He shifted in his chair. The world was looking green again. "Where's Root now?"

"She took the drive."

"I imagine that falls under _ill-advised_ , Harold." Looking over to Finch. The older man was unable to hide the faint amusement on his face, and Reese narrowed his eyes. "What."

"You're beginning to sound a bit like me, Mr. Reese."

"The Russians are involved with some intelligence firm," Reese said softly, ignoring the comment, "that wants whatever's on it."

"Decima."

"Maybe."

Finch leaned back in his chair. It could explain the Machine's uncharacteristic power play.

"What was on it?"

"Control," Finch said blandly. "Behind the facade of the everyday workings of a cable communications company there's code re-written to give access to government feeds. Surveillance. Satellites."

He left out their own modifications, creations of new backdoors and pipelines.

Softly. "I guess your Machine wants all that control to itself, Finch."

"Very funny, Mr. Reese." It was, in fact, his fear.

"Better he has it," Reese said, closing his eyes again, "than them." The hammer was back, holding hands with nausea this time. Too much talking.

"He?" Finch repeated.

Reese kept his eyes closed. "She...? It?" The pronouns were mumbled.

A long pause, followed by an even, "I see."

Reese waited, but Finch didn't elaborate.

The typing started up again.

Reese waited, then glanced over out of the corner of his eye. Finch's expression was tight, his mouth pressed in a thin line. He was no stranger to this side of Finch. He knew not to push. It would get him nowhere.

He closed his eyes to the sounds of the keyboard.

When he woke again-time loss unknown-it was with a jerk. Straight out of Fallujah, of his own accord.

Bear glanced at him, Finch did not.

A few even spaced breaths. He shifted in his chair.

He felt thirsty.

Tired.

Restless.

He moved to get up, finding balance in a heavy palm on the edge of the desk. He counted slowly in his head and went to stand.

" _Sit_...," Finch said. His eyes never left the screen.

Bear tilted his head at the familiar word and let out a low whine.

"Yes, yes, you too." A pause, tapping out a quick string. Finch glanced at Reese then, who was seated again but thinking too hard about it. "John… just sit."

Another whine from Bear. The dog rose from his bed at the command now, sitting expectantly, and Finch's expression shifted.

He gave the shepherd a critical look over the top of his glasses.

"Bear. Did you roll in something?"

"What?"

Finch's eyes flicked to Reese. "There's a certain... odor," he said, shifting his chair away from the desk.

"Oh." Reese followed his employer's line of sight to Bear, who stared back.

The dog blinked, opening his mouth with a happy looking pant and a soft thump of his tail.


	5. Chapter 5

Shaw stared at the restrained figure before her, absently twirling a small paring knife between her thumb and forefinger. He spat an insult in garbled Russian and she sighed, stepping back with a roll of her eyes.

"I'm not sure I caught that," she said with a look. "Let's try this again."

Half training and half instinct, Sameen Shaw was no stranger to persuasive interrogation techniques.

Earlier, she had entered the Russian Samovar with an air of frustration and a low cut black tank top. Scanning the menu of flavored vodkas, she had waited at the bar with cocktail and a frown, circling ice cubes in her glass with a straw.

Debating the borscht.

Erik Ivanov had rolled downstairs with confidence and she'd caught his eye. A smile and he'd taken the seat next to her with practiced ease. He had been happy to buy her a second round until later, having isolated him from his men, she'd duct taped him to an office chair and given him the same wink that had gotten her upstairs in the first place.

"Sorry," she had said, cinching the zip ties tightly around his wrists. "I like it rough."

He stared at her now through narrowed, bloodshot eyes.

" _Ms. Shaw_."

Finch's voice broke through the com; she turned from Ivanov and tapped the earpiece.

"Yeah."

" _I believe Ivanov should be aware of an address. I've traced an IP config history in the code from the drive…"_ He trails off. She can hear typing. " _But it only gets me so far."_

Shaw turned back to her hostage. "Look, Erik." She sat back against the desk and gave Ivanov a cool stare. She twirled the knife again. "Your brother's an ass. He sold you out."

Ivanov glared. "You know nothing, you bitc-Aghh!"

"-It's interesting," Shaw said, pulling the knife out of his thigh. "Your leg is this intricate map. Nerves. Arteries-"

" _Ms. Shaw_."

She stared at Ivanov, Finch's warning sharp in her ear. The Russian was gaping at the cut through his pants, the thin line of red blooming through the sliced fabric.

It wasn't even deep.

She sighed.

"Look, buddy. I need two things. The tech company you dealt with and their address."

His eyes raised to hers. He looked like he wanted to spit again.

"I was a surgeon once," she reflected, sensing he would still hold out. Wiping the knife against the denim of her black jeans. She turned it side to side, as if examining its shine. "Or at least, almost a surgeon."

He glared. "So?"

"So I can't remember," she continued calmly, "just how deep the femoral artery runs."

She raised her eyebrows. _Shall we find out?_

" _Ms. Shaw_." Sharper now.

"Oh by the way," she said, when she'd gotten what she wanted. She wiped the knife on her jeans again and tossed it onto the desk with a clatter. "This is for John."

She slammed an elbow to the side of his head and left the door open on her way out.

* * *

On the corner of 9th, Shaw swore she'd been made.

She circled back, glancing in the side view mirror of a U-Haul truck. Stopping under a streetlamp, just out reach of its light.

She waited.

There.

The click of a footstep.

She spun on her heel, fingers tracing her weapon.

"Hey there," came a voice from the shadows.

Clear as a bell.

Shaw turned, eyeing the familiar form. She shook her head. Not impressed.

"That's a pretty good way to get yourself shot."

Root smiled, stepping into the light. "She told me you might be here."

Shaw didn't return the good humor. "Well," she said. "I'm here."

"Well, hey."

Silence.

Shaw raised an eyebrow.

"What? Can't I pay a visit to my favorite girl?"

"Root."

Root tilted her head just slightly, an upturn to the corner of her mouth. There was blood on the collar of her shirt.

"Playing Batgirl again?"

"Things are evolving," Root replied softly, her tone less playful. A breeze ruffled her hair. There was a distance in her face now, as if she were preoccupied by the thoughts of said 'evolution'. "She needs more from us. From me."

"She," Shaw repeated. She shook her head. "Your electronic demigod?"

"Tomorrow," Root continued, "there's going to be a hand-off. She says to let it happen."

"A hand-off… The hard drive?"

Root shrugged. "Maybe," she said, and Shaw frowned, growing annoyed at the ambiguity of it. The streetlight above them flickered. A high-pitched buzzing noise.

"You wanna tell me what's going on here?"

"Honestly?" Root raised her shoulders in a shrug. "Sometimes I only know the next step." She didn't seem too bothered by it. "The big picture is hers, Shaw. We just have to trust."

The lamp corrected itself, the humming stopped.

Shaw gave her a doubtful look. "Trust," she repeated. She shook her head again and started to walk away, into the light. "Let me know how that works out for you."

"I love your smile," Root said after her, and Shaw stopped.

She turned back.

She hadn't smiled once through the entire exchange.

"Maybe we can grab a drink sometime," Root continued. A slow smile of her own crept across her face. "When I'm in town again?"

Shaw held the gaze with a flat expression. _Seriously?_

Root's smile didn't waver. "Maybe?"

A truck backfired from a neighboring block.

Neither flinched.

Root wasn't budging, and Shaw sighed.

She rolled her eyes.

"I'll take that as a yes," Root said. Her smile widened. She held out a hard drive, stepping forward to close the distance between them. The echo of her heels on the pavement. "Give this to Harry?"

* * *

A cough.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Finch lifted his head. Straightening up in his chair from a bent over position: he'd been helping an already shirtless Reese step out of his suit pants.

"Ms. Shaw."

She raised a brow, her gaze going between them.

"Finch didn't like my pants," Reese said solemnly.

Finch gave him a mildly exasperated glance. "I didn't like the _smell_ of his pants," he clarified. He pushed Reese back gently and then swept the retired pants to the side with his foot. "Nor did Bear."

"Bear liked them just fine," came a stubborn-toned correction.

Finch gave Reese another look.

"Really," he said.

Bear let out a whine.

" _Boys_."

The three of them looked to her.

"Rein it in." Moving around the side of the desk. She dropped the hard drive between the two keyboards and then appraised Reese with a frown; he was still standing around in his boxer briefs as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. She shook her head.

"What?"

She kept her eyes at his face, then shook her head again and looked back to Finch.

Finch had his eyes on the drive. "What is this?"

Shaw raised her shoulders in a shrug. "Root said you'd know what to do with it."

Finch picked it up, hesitating a moment and then rolling his chair back to access a desktop tower under the table. He plugged that in first, then straightened up stiffly. Reaching for the keyboard to his left.

Shaw leaned her weight against the side of the desk as the new tower booted up, a string of start-up commands streaming down one of the side monitors. She glanced to Reese then: he was back at the start of the stacks, slowly pulling a fresh shirt over his head. She noted the jagged line that ran across one of his shoulder blades, the other track down the side of his ribs.

She had her own scars, sure.

But Reese.

She turned back to find Finch watching her. He met her eye for a moment, unreadable, then looked back to the computer screen.

"Isolated system," she guessed, nodding toward the monitor.

He hummed an affirmative.

She shifted her weight, staring at the screen again. Zoning. The white noise of fingers on the plastic keys.

She closed her eyes, then blinked them open.

Sometimes, when the familiar tapping hit her ear in the field, she still expected to hear Cole's voice come in over the com.

Finch gave her a sidelong glance. "Your 'interrogation' went well?" he asked.

She continued to stare at the monitor. The scrolling text. "Nothing worse than he's done to his own."

Finch's expression betrayed a hint of his disapproval.

There was a noise from in the stacks then, a rustle and a thud of something dropping on the floor.

Finch paused, fingers resting on the keyboard. He turned slightly and looked to the empty corridor, mouth pressed into a frown.

Debating.

Shaw tilted her head, listening. "Still standing," she noted, and Finch gave her a look.

A buzz.

She slipped her cell from her pocket, glancing down. A cloned message from Ivanov's phone.

_This ends tomorrow._

She sighed. No rest for the weary.

She looked up again, catching Finch's eye. It was quiet in the stacks. "Long as that wasn't his grenade collection."

He shot her another look.

She smirked. "He'll be fine."

"John considers himself _fine_ if he's conscious and breathing."

"I can _hear_ you," came a voice behind them. Head injury aside, Reese hadn't lost his stealth. "Harold."

Finch turned to eye Reese, an awkward twist of his upper body.

"Couch," he said. His tone indicated that they had already discussed what 'couch' meant. He gave Reese a pointed look and then shifted back to the screen, his posture straight. It read, _And we're not discussing it again._

Reese looked amused.

In fresh suit pants and clean shirt, his appearance was passable, but he was leaning his weight into the filing cabinet as he opened its top drawer.

"You don't pay me to nap, Finch." Reese squinted as he tapped a seven-digit code into a new burner phone and then slipped it into his pocket.

"I can stop paying you, Mr. Reese," Finch replied dryly, still not looking at him. "But since you hardly keep what you earn to begin with, I suppose that's futile."

Reese considered that. "I suppose."

"And need I remind you: it's after midnight." Finch's head turned, just slightly. "That doesn't constitute a 'nap'."

Reese rubbed a palm down his face. He blinked. Watched the back of his employer's head for a minute, then looked to Shaw. She shifted her weight into the desk again and held up two fingers.

Mouthed: "How many?"

He narrowed his eyes.

She raised an eyebrow.

He remained silent.

"How many?" She said it at again, at regular volume, and he gave her a sour look.

_Traitor._

"Two." He had squinted though, deconvoluting the digits.

Finch turned to look at him again.

"Blurry?" Shaw asked.

"No."

"Lying?"

There was a slight sheen of sweat at his temple. A darkness under his eyes.

"No." He stared at her stonily, then moved away from the cabinet in a fluid motion. He navigated around Bear's excited circling and sank into a chair.

The shepherd pushed a furry chin into his lap. His hand dropped to the dog's head softly.

Sitting had been necessary.

"What's that." He nodded to the second monitor to Finch's right, the scrolling text.

Redirecting their attention.

Their gazes shifted to the computer screens and he shifted sideways in his chair, resting his own chin in his hand. He closed his eyes, then opened them at Finch's single-worded response.

"A virus."

"A virus?" Shaw repeated. She frowned, surprised at Finch's nonchalance. "Root gave you a virus?"

Finch shook his head. "She gave us the inoculation."

Reese frowned slightly. He watched the scrolling code on the screen.

Line after line after line.

"It appears," Finch continued slowly, "that the Machine is preparing itself for some threats of the global variety."

Bear whined, shifting his head under the stillness of his human's hand.

Reese rubbed one of his ears absently.

He shut his eyes.

"- John."

Reese glanced up like a student who had been called on unexpectedly. He blinked, finding Finch's eyes through the haze of his vision.

He looked around a second, then back to Finch.

The scrolling code was gone. Only one monitor glowing.

They were alone.

"Couch," Finch said gently, and Reese repeated the word in soft agreement.

"Couch."

The server room, or designated crash room, had been a reading room at one point in time. It was quiet there, buffered from the sounds of the outside world. Its pastel walls held antique maps of the city, subway blueprints.

Orthographic views of an earlier time.

On autopilot, Reese navigated to the worn, familiar sofa in the room's dimly lit glow. Without hesitation, he lowered himself face-down into its sagging cushions.

From the doorway, Finch watched the prone form for a moment, his eyes adjusting in the low light.

Fully dressed. Even shoes.

He shook his head.

"Where did you think you were going?" he asked, mostly to himself. He moved into the room.

It was not an unfamiliar ritual. Removing the right Oxford. Unlacing the left.

"Finch." Softly.

"Mm."

"It was the only way out."

Finch paused. "What?" He lowered the second ankle, giving it a squeeze. Setting the second shoe next to its partner.

"The window."

"What window?"

There was a long pause. The next words barely audible.

"It told me to."

The statement had been muffled into the cushions of the couch. Difficult to make out. "Told you to what?"

There was another long pause.

Finch replayed the words. He recalled their earlier conversation.

 _Maybe a window_.

He frowned.

"Did the Machine tell you to jump out of a window, Mr. Reese?"

Silence.

Finch waited, his mind racing with questions.

A clock ticked on the wall. Finch glanced at it.

"John."

Reese stayed silent and Finch had the sudden urge to shake him fully awake.

He closed his eyes. He shook his head.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow would be a serious conversation.

He let out a breath, moving to grab the old comforter from off one of the faded wingback chairs.

A window.

_Really?_

He sighed, then draped the old comforter over the still form, moving to the door.

"Finch?"

He heard the unspoken question.

"I'm sticking around," he said. "Keep an eye on you."

Reese murmured something in the affirmative, the weight of the blanket cocooning him into the couch.

Finch didn't realize he was hanging in the doorway until a wet nose pressed into his hand. He started. Glancing at Bear.

"I know," he said, petting the dog absently. Moving stiffly. "I will. I will."


	6. Chapter 6

_**2009** _

" _Harold. You look awful."_

_Finch turned toward Nathan's voice, pulling his gaze away from the computer and its blinking cursor. Eyeing his friend's bandaged hand, just long enough to make a point._

_He turned his attention back to the screen. "I might say the same." His words were directed at the monitor, his tone absent. "Late night?"_

" _Something like that."_

_Finch hummed a noncommittal reply._

_Nathan rolled a chair up to the desk, straddling it backward with his elbows on its backrest. His next words took on a teasing tone. "How goes the lessons in morality, mama bird?"_

_Finch twisted his neck, giving Nathan a sour look. "Fine, thank you."_

" _My offer still stands."_

" _My answer still remains."_

_Nathan smirked. Amused. This iteration, it was the furthest they had gotten. He knew his friend was carefully calculating each step in the Machine's development, its learning._

_Its ethics._

" _Have you slept?" Nathan asked. He waited, hardly a second, then directed the question over Finch's head. "Has admin slept?"_

_A pause. The blinking cursor._

_Then, a response:_ Three hours. Seventeen minutes.

_Nathan looked back to Finch, who gave him an irritated look._

" _Nathan. Really?"_

_From the street, a distant siren howled. "Look, my friend, let's get you out tonight. Grab dinner. A drink."_

_Finch leaned back in his chair, swiveling away from the computer station, just slightly._

" _C'mon…" Nathan's cajoling tone, a smile. "One night. The poor thing needs a break."_

_Finch found himself fighting back a smile of his own. "Alright," he said, chuckling. "Alright. Fine."_

_Nathan gave a triumphant grin. He looked down at his watch, then back to Finch. "Board meeting in six minutes." Raising his eyebrows. "I don't suppose you have any interest-"_

" _Nathan."_

" _Okay. Tonight." Nathan pulled his lanky frame up from the chair. Pushing it to the side, its cushioned arm hitting the side of the desk. "Seven o'clock sharp."_

" _Seven it is," Finch replied. He shook his head, smile lingering, and then swiveled back to face the computer screen._

_He waited a moment. Thinking. Then let out a breath and began again._

" _There's a runaway trolley..."_

* * *

Finch woke with a quick intake of breath. Slowly lifting his head, heeding to the stiffness in his vertebrae.

He heard Reese, an amused, "Morning, Finch," and turned his head toward the voice, neck instantly disagreeing with the motion. Squinting into the pale cast of light from the windows, wincing at the subsequent spasm down his spine.

He shouldn't have fallen asleep at his desk.

"Mr. Reese."

"You look awful, Harold." Reese cocked his head. "You shouldn't sleep at your desk."

Finch gave the younger man a mildly irritated look, then rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. Awful were Reese's own shadowed eyes. The bruise now blossoming along his temple.

He gave Reese a critical assessment of his own: the slight sheen to the brow, a slowed breathing pattern.

Tells he had learned to read.

Bear pushed into Finch's personal space as he noted next the styrofoam coffee cup in Reese's hand (resting on a splayed knee with precarious tilt). A second beverage was to the left of his own keyboard. Tea. Probably cold.

Reese must have seen his expression change. "Bear wanted donuts," he offered.

Bear whined softly, pushing his nose into Finch's hand.

Finch absently rubbed the top of the canine's head. "Even he knows you're lying."

"Niet leuk, mijn vriend," Reese said to the dog softly. His coffee cup tilted but he corrected it in time. Catching Finch's eye.

Finch held out his hand. Palm up. Opening it and closing it once. _Give it here._

Reese ignored him. Bringing the cup to his lips. He didn't drink.

Finch turned his chair from the desk and leaned back into its support. His spine argued the straightening, but he kept a mild expression. They were almost knee to knee. "And where might the donuts be?"

Reese blinked. The cup lowered back down. "The donuts," he repeated.

"For Bear?"

Bear tilted his head at the sound of his name and looked to Finch, ears perked, opening his mouth in a contented pant. Finch gave him a gentle scratch behind his left ear.

Reese's own head tilted, blue eyes squinting slightly in confusion.

"Donuts," he repeated again.

Finch frowned. He wondered if the guy at their normal beverage spot had taken Reese for inebriated that morning.

"You're annoyed," Reese guessed, after a long pause where he realized that Finch might be expecting him to say something.

Finch didn't respond. His frown lingered.

"I can go get donuts."

"John," Finch said. He let out an audible exhale. "Forget the donuts."

Reese was quiet. He rubbed his free hand down the stubble on his cheek, across his chin. There was a rattling noise from the street, a truck making its morning deliveries.

The coffee tilted again, and Finch reached out without an offer this time, removing the lukewarm styrofoam from the unbalanced hold.

Reese stared at that cup for a minute, at its new resting spot next to the other on the desk, and Finch waited, watching him. For a moment, he debated.

He had spent half the night digging up what he could on the tech company Ms. Shaw had managed to get the name of. Breaking through the firewall had been a challenging but not altogether impossible task.

It had been a welcome distraction, but nonetheless, the second half of the night was spent bothered by Reese's slip of events from the day before.

"Mr. Reese."

Reese's eyes went back to him. A practiced calm in his expression.

Finch paused. He wondered if they trained that. Basic? Special ops? Ms. Shaw often housed a similar expression, but hers tended more on the side of undefinable annoyance.

Mr. Reese's expression harbored nothing. It was vacant. Empty.

He shook his head.

"Finch?"

Yesterday.

He couldn't get it off his mind.

"Yesterday..." A beat. "Mr. Reese. I fail to recognize what would ever possess you to leap from a window."

Reese blinked, mildly, and then rolled his eyes with a soft smile. As if to say, _That's all?_

The blankness was gone. Snapped away.

"Finch." Patiently.

"I'm serious."

" _Finch_."

Finch heard only the nonchalance (could already hear the argument: _Do you know how many windows I've jumped out of, Harold?_ ) and headed it off with a sharp look.

"You're not invincible, Mr. Reese."

The resulting sound from Reese was something between a scoff and a laugh. The ex-op raised his gaze to the ceiling, closing his eyes with a slight shake of his head.

When he opened them, he met Finch's stare with a wistful half smile.

"If anyone knows that," he started softly, "it's me." A splayed knee rocked slightly: he didn't like the conversation's direction. "I thought you trusted your machine, Harold."

Redirection.

"You can't blindly follow a _machine_ , John."

Reese raised his eyebrows. He almost looked amused. "Finch."

"You had another exit."

"Did I? I'm sorry, Finch, I forgot you were up there with me."

It was a cheap shot, said too quickly.

Finch stared at him.

Reese was quiet.

The agitated rocking of the knee returned.

A rattle of the gate, an eager whine escaping Bear. Neither looked to the doorway.

"This," Reese said, and he waved absently at his head as the dog ran off to greet Shaw, "had nothing to do with that."

"Hardly the point."

The clicking of Bear's nails, the scratching of excited paws on the wood floor.

Reese looked away from his employer's frown. "Speaking of doctors," he said.

Shaw flicked his ear at the comment, circling around the desk like a restless cat. She landed him an unamused glare. A stony frown.

She hated any reference to her medical career.

He knew this.

She looked to Finch instead. The glare still present. _How do you put up with him?_

"Good morning, Ms. Shaw," Finch said flatly. He swiveled his chair back to the computer station.

She looked between them, sensing the tension. To the styrofoam cups next to the keyboard.

She leaned against the desk. Reaching for the cup with coffee. She sipped it, then looked back to Reese. To Finch.

To Bear.

"Where are the donuts?"

* * *

From Finch's earlier hack and his current post in a nondescript white van on the corner, access inside the fifteen story building that housed the technology firm Initech seemed to be straightforward.

Shaw and Reese presented their freshly printed and laminated ID badges, swiping through the outer turnstiles and shuffling through with the morning crowd toward the inner atrium.

Just another workday, herded through with their fellow sheep in suits.

Then, one not so straightforward detail: after the turnstiles, metal detectors.

Shaw hesitated, eyes sweeping the atrium behind the security wall: access to stairwells and elevators.

The only access.

She muttered a curse.

"Finch," she started. She thought he could maybe access the firmware to the detectors. Turn them off.

Something.

She glanced at her watch.

Twenty minutes until the meeting time indicated in a recent text message from the second Ivanov brother. Its recipient, unknown. Presumably an Initech employee.

Reese had circled away from her, his own eyes sweeping the atrium, but in a way where it seemed he was admiring the grandiose marble fountain at its center and the intricate glass ceiling.

Eyes upward, still walking.

He bumped into a custodian.

He murmured an absent apology, catching his balance. Shaw shot him an irritated look.

"You should have stayed in the van," she said when he was near again.

He ignored her, staring at the ceiling a second longer. He blinked.

She shook her head.

"C'mon," he murmured, moving to the side of the passageway.

Shaw watched him. She trailed behind, still examining the hall for any weaknesses.

"I'd prefer," she continued in a low voice, "if my back-up wasn't the one who shot me today."

"I can see fine." It was a lie: his vision was haloed in darkness, the marble fountain had appeared in double. He pressed a smile at her. "But I can't make any promises."

She shot him a look.

They were at a door now, at the corner of the hall. A security camera at the other end; they both shifted their stance to face away from it, almost in sync.

Shaw looked at the door.

Okay?

A jingle.

She turned.

Reese held up a ring of keys: standard keys, swipe cards, key fobs.

You name it.

A whisper. "You still want me in the van?"

"Yes," she muttered, but she grabbed it from him and went to work on the lock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First to admit: it's been tough to write. Began a post-series denial piece, which may never air, then came back to this. Thanks for sticking with me. :)


	7. Chapter 7

Four stories. Seventy-two stairs.

"You okay?"

Three questions regarding his well-being.

"Still fine, Shaw."

When she held the door for him on the seventh, Reese gave the uncharacteristic motion a frown but stepped through silently. Head pounding, weapon at the ready. Scanning the open corridor.

Empty. The offices abandoned. Just like each one below it.

"Weird," Shaw murmured. She lowered her gun, turning and waiting for Reese to do the same. He caught her once-over when he faced back, gave a steady stare in return.

_I'm_ _fine._

She narrowed her eyes in disagreement but moved to the cubicles.

Reese rested his arms on the railing of the balcony, watching the busy atrium below. The fountain, the moving suits.

They blurred together.

"Finch?" He closed his eyes, testing the spin. Like going to bed after one too many whiskeys, his head swirled, denying the break. "You there?"

Behind him, he could hear Shaw popping a USB flash drive into one of the computer stations. A backdoor for Finch in the van, wi-fi enabled.

" _Always, Mr. Reese_ ," came the ready reply. Reese hesitated, his own words from the morning coming back like a kick to the stomach.

_I'm sorry, I forgot you were up there with me_.

He glanced to Shaw, turning his back to the rail. Her eyes were roaming the abandoned cubicles, the neatly stocked workstations.

"Finch," he started, but Shaw interjected.

"You're in, Finch," she said. "See any action up here?"

There was a pause. A faint clicking. Finch would be panning through the security cameras.

" _Oddly enough, no. Considering the workday and the crowd in the foyer_." The voice trailed off. Then, " _Wait_."

There was a hum as he spoke: a printer buzzing to life at one of the workstations behind them.

Reese pushed off from the rail. Looking to Shaw as she stepped toward its cubicle.

" _Tenth floor_."

Shaw pulled a paper from the printer's output tray at the same time Finch's voice came through the com. Holding it up for Reese to see: a grainy print from a security camera. Erik Ivanov's profile, shadowed by the silhouette of another figure. An office door visible: 100-something. The last digit was obstructed.

" _There's several men with Mr. Ivanov, heading into a conference room._ "

"Finch," Shaw said. She studied the print. "Did you just send this?"

There was a pause.

" _And what would 'this' be, Ms. Shaw?"_

A frown. A look to Reese. "I'll take that as a no."

Reese's earpiece hummed. _:: Ten. Oh. Seven. ::_

He tilted his head at a crackle of static.

" _Ten-oh-seven_ ," Finch echoed a second later. There was a faint clicking. His next words were weighted with caution. " _They are... quite armed._ "

Reese looked to Shaw as she gave him a dubious once-over. He narrowed his eyes, mimicking her own earlier stare.

"I lead," she mouthed. She pointed a finger at him in warning.

Finch's voice broke through. " _Ms. Shaw."_ There was a hesitation, just a beat. " _Do be careful._ "

She gave Reese a pointed look. He raised his eyebrows.

" _Mr. Reese_."

There was a warning in the tone. "Finch-" His ear com buzzed before he could continue.

_::Two o'clock. ::_

Reese spun in reflex, raising his weapon and firing.

He was off, the shot too high.

A bullet flew back. He ducked, grabbing Shaw's arm and tugging her down with him. Another pop of gunfire. He did a quick mental calculation: intended and actual. An offset of his hindered vision.

His second shot hit the target's shoulder; it brought the suited figure down with a thud.

Shaw cursed under her breath, leaning around him to survey the long open corridor. Barrel of her gun guiding her sight.

"- _Mr. Reese?_ "

"We're okay." Reese twisted in his crouched position for a better view. Blinking to focus.

It was still. His com silent.

There had just been the one.

Shaw looked back at him.

"Finch?"

" _The feeds are being looped_ ," came the reply. There was a muffled noise, the sound of typing and movement. A frustrated breath.

Finch was blind.

The clock was ticking.

They moved.

* * *

 Three more flights. Squatting at the edge of a hallway on the tenth floor.

Muffled voices echoing from around the corridor, the sound of Ivanov's guttural objections.

Shaw shifted her weight onto her heels. Glancing to Reese. The flush to his cheekbones, the unusually mussed hair. He looked peaked.

"My turn to save him." She waited for the objection. He took a knee to face her instead, his squat becoming an unbalanced crouch.

A tilt of his head, a stare.

She stared back, shaking her head. Extending a hand, clenching it into a fist. She waited until he mimicked the motion. A muffled roll of _rock, paper_ -

In their ears, a disapproving throat cleared.

Shaw slapped a flat palm on top of Reese's outstretched fist. He stared. She squeezed.

" _Given your… condition, Mr. Reese, it might be more appropriate for Ms. Shaw to have the privilege_."

Reese turned his head. "Finch-"

"Relax, Evel Knievel." Shaw dropped her other hand, silencing him with a clap to his knee. Rising from the ground. "Cover me." She didn't wait for his response.

Moving toward 1007, keeping one shoulder against the wall. She hovered outside, listening.

" _-made it easy and stuck to the deal, but no_. I _always knew your brother was the smart one, Erik._ "

A shot fired from inside the room. A grunt. Shaw shifted her other shoulder to the wall.

" _See?_ " There was a clatter, a sound of a chair scraping across the floor. " _It could have been easy, you could have kept some stake in it._ "

Shaw closed her eyes and pictured their positions in the room. Ivanov in the chair, a figure looming above him. Two others-no, make it three. One in each corner, one by the door.

Reese breathed in her ear: " _Careful, Shaw_. _Five guys in there._ "

Okay, five.

The more the merrier.

" _We need your token and password. That's it."_

" _That's_ it _?"_ came the accented reply. Ivanov was breathing heavily. He was in pain.

The chair had scraped to the left. Shaw hummed a count under her breath and then pushed off from the wall, entering the doorway with her pistol raised.

She said nothing, pulling a trigger in greeting. A shot rang out, a bullet slapping into the shoulder of the figure towering over Ivanov. He grunted as he fell.

A spray of bullets flew back as she ducked behind a small table.

She fired again as she spun out of range. Her second bullet landed a knee cap. The third, an ankle.

The fourth, a gutshot. No choice.

"Hello, Erik," she said. She gave him a smile, feeling the falseness of it on her face.

A shot grazed her shoulder; she hissed and raised her pistol at the last suit standing. Aiming between his eyes.

"Who do you work for?" she demanded.

He stared at her with ice blue eyes, a soft smile on his lips. A shake of his head. "You're too late."

Shaw risked a glance to Ivanov, his face splotched with red, his eyes angry. She looked back to the suited operative. Raising an eyebrow. "Doesn't look like it."

The smile didn't waver.

His smugness made her want to pull the trigger. Instead, she took in the room behind him. It wasn't a conference room.

It was a server room.

"Who do you work for," she repeated. Looking back to him.

"I would ask the same. But I think we both already know the answer."

Her eyes narrowed.

A gunshot from the hallway. A thud and a grunt.

Shaw didn't flinch. "Your backup?"

* * *

 Reese swung his weapon toward a blurred motion at the same time he heard the directional.

_:: Three o'clock. ::_

A single shot. The figure fell with a heavy thud.

He waited.

_:: Nine o'clock. ::_

_:: Three o'clock. ::_

_:: Three o'clock. ::_

Three shots fired in quick succession.

Quiet. He felt the blood pounding in his ears.

_:: Ten. Oh. Seven. ::_

Gun raised, finger on the trigger. The corridor was still.

Again, the room number came in over his com.

Vision going black as he stood, abandoning his crouched vantage point. It returned in seconds, pixel by pixel, his periphery remaining blurred.

In the doorway. Itemizing the room: the servers, the downed figures on the tiled floor. Shaw and the suited operative, weapons trained on each other.

It was Ivanov who saw him first.

" _You_ ," the Russian spat.

"Hello, Erik." Reese forced a wry smile. He raised his pistol then, turning in the direction of the operative. Shadowing Shaw's aim. "Met some of your friends," he said pleasantly. There was movement on the floor to his left, a stifled groan. He stepped in, sweeping a gun out of reach from a just conscious operative with the toe of his shoe. Looking back to the standing suit. In his vision, two figures haloed each other, then focused back into one. "They seemed nice."

"Another one of Harold Finch's little birdies?" The suit stared back at him, appearing unfazed, then looked again to Shaw, the smug smile returning to his lips. _See? I know exactly who you are._

Shaw gazed back coldly, her face a stony mask. "Party's over, Bond. Drop the gun."

The corners of the man's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Shoot me," he said, "and the white van outside disappears."

"Van?" she repeated blankly; Reese's eyes flicked to her before he could think. He caught himself, focused his gaze on Ivanov behind her, but it was too late. The smile on the operative's face broadened.

Shit.

"I thought so." The blue eyes looked to Reese in mocking approval and then back to Ivanov. "Token," he said, repeating his words from earlier. "And password."

Reese glanced to Shaw.

Finch would have been listening.

He was always listening.

Shaw's stare to him was as unsympathetic as the one to the suit.

Ivanov grunted in pain as the operative pressed over him; the mechanical voice in Reese's ear sounded at the same time.

_:: Four ::_

Reese scanned the room, feeling Shaw's glare, the Russian's growled response echoing in his ears.

Servers lining the right wall. The computer workstations lining the back. Each topped with a laminated placard.

One through six.

In his ear. Static, an alphanumeric code, a pause. A word, followed by number.

Reese frowned, glancing to the others. The suit was focused on Ivanov. Shaw was watching him.

Shaw looked pissed.

He looked back to the computer stations.

The code repeated. Then the word, followed by a number.

"Finch?" he murmured. Head turned to the side. He waited.

Ready to ask: _Any reason the Machine would want Decima to get access to these servers?_

His com line was silent.

"Finch."

No sound of the voice he wanted, a mechanical intonation in its place. His stomach twisted.

Again, the code. The word. The number.

He closed his eyes.

Opened them, moving toward the workstations. Jiggling the mouse.

"Hey." The operative's voice, then Shaw's.

"Reese."

"You need the token," Reese said, not turning. He saw the first prompt on the monitor's screen, a white box that swam before his eyes. He glanced to the keyboard, the white letters on its keys blurring together in a similar fashion. He paused. Let out a frustrated breath. "Shaw." He looked to her. _C'mon, Shaw._ He shot a brief glance to the operative, who hesitated and then gave a curt nod.

Shaw moved in behind him. Laying a hand on his shoulder, digging her fingernails in. A shoulder that he rolled in rebuttal to her muttered, "I'm benching you after this, Reese. Swear to God."

"Seven," he said evenly, rolling his shoulder again, waiting for her to take the keyboard. "Bravo, kilo, seven, two, oscar-" He repeated the code from earlier. "Enter," he said finally. Shaw turned her head. He reached under her hand, tapping the Enter key.

He heard the curse uttered from Ivanov. "I knew you worked with them." The swearing continued, the next window popped open.

"Reese."

"Trust me," he said softly, but he doubted his own words. Blindly trusting a machine. He relayed the word, the number. She hit Enter herself this time and he straightened up.

Felt the ice blue eyes watching him suspiciously. He quirked a half smile.

"There you go."

Finch had likely left the van.

His com was silent.

"It doesn't matter now," the accented voice scoffed from behind them. His words were punctuated by shallow breaths. Reese heard Ivanov grunt, shift in his chair. "They already have access to everything."

"Not everything," a lighter voice chimed.

They turned.

In the doorway, Root's smiling face seemed incongruous to the restraining hold she was in, the viselike arm of an annoyed looking operative wrapped around her throat, a gun to her temple.

"Hi, Larry," she purred, giving a smile of slow irony to the blue-eyed operative staring back. "Miss me?"


	8. Chapter 8

Finch had frozen when the van door rattled open. A rush of cold air, the reversed clatter and slam of it closing shut.

His heart had thudded, even after he had recognized the figure.

"Hello there." He angled himself toward her, forcing his fingers to relax at the keyboard.

Root looked around the interior of the vehicle. Her eyes came back to his, a tiny smile slanting her lips. A quick nod to the scrolling text on his screen.

"She appreciates the leg up."

Finch focused his eyes back to the coding. Multitasking and a loss of eyes in the building had spurred the birth of a new programming sequence. Replacing similar code with a twist in their favor.

Once he'd gotten access to the network he had been uploading it as quickly as he was writing it.

He would give Decima exactly what they wanted, only, it wouldn't quite be what they might expect. When the firm had accessed the higher levels of the program, it would unleash a worm capable of corrupting their entire mainframe in minutes.

Finch gave a modest shrug, the motion sending a twinge up his neck. The close quarters of the van allowed few comforts. "It would seem the Machine and I both both regard honeypots as acceptable tactics of defense."

"Speaking of defense tactics." Root sank into the seat next to him, her eyes scanning the screen as she spoke. "She's alerted me to a minor hiccup to your plan inside."

The screen on his laptop flickered. Finch gave it a quick frown. The upload had paused, a falter of the streaming text. He glanced to Root.

She raised her eyebrows. _What can I say?_

Finch tapped his ear com. "Mr. Reese." Silence hung in his ear. "Ms. Shaw."

Root calmly regarded him, tucking a strand of her hair, long and wavy, behind her ear. She smiled gently.

"The kids can't hear you."

Finch turned to face her. He could feel the lines score his brow.

Root's head tilted to the side, her eyes still holding his as she listened to another's voice.

Something stirred in him as he watched the expression on her face change. Knowing quite well who the voice belonged to.

_What_ it belonged to.

"I understand." A pause. Root directed her next words to him. "You need to move."

* * *

 

In a scene that should have been dominated by guns and blows, Root peacefully traded herself (and a hard drive) in exchange for Ivanov.

"Hi, Sam," she whispered. She passed by the other woman with a wink.

She held Shaw's gaze even as the operative named Larry patted her down and pushed her to the side.

"I was serious about that drink."

Shaw squinted her eyes, just slightly. Seriously?

The woman was crazy.

Bat sh-

"Shaw."

She turned her head, breaking Root's eye contact. Finding Reese's. He wanted to move, and she yanked Ivanov out of the chair with little sympathy for his injuries.

"This isn't over," the Russian hissed, his glower aimed at the two operatives-to Root, even-and then equally focused on herself and Reese.

Shaw muttered under her breath, pushing the bulky man to the door. She stole one more glance behind them, just as they exited.

Root smiled, just for her, but she couldn't bring herself to return it.

In the stairwell, between the seventh and sixth, it hit her.

She stopped mid-step.

"The hand-off."

Reese regarded her with a frown. Coming to a stop a step above. "Hand-off?"

A grunt. Ivanov glared in disfavor. Sweat trickled down the Russian's temple, stress flushing his cheeks.

"It was her," Shaw said. _There's going to be a hand-off_ , Root had said. _She says to let it happen._

Well. They had let it.

"What?"

" _She_ was the hand-off."

A pause from Reese. A glance to Ivanov. Now a murmured, "What?"

An irritated frown. Shaw moved as though to return upstairs and he caught her arm.

"Shaw."

"Get Ivanov downstairs."

He looked to her shoulder. The blood caking the torn fabric of her shirt. He met her eye. "She knows what she's doing, Shaw."

Shaw stared back. "You don't trust her." Shaking him off.

_Or care what happens to her_.

It was said with no apparent feeling toward the matter, but it was said.

Reese gave her a sideways look. He leaned his shoulder against the cinder block wall. "Shaw."

The echo of a door. Footsteps from below.

An exchanged glance. Ivanov opened his mouth and Reese gave him a warning look.

Shaw held up a hand. _Wait._

Muffled voices.

Reese pulled his weight up, gave Ivanov a slight push.

"Let's move," he said softly.

The echo of boots. Paces quickening.

Exiting on the sixth.

A bullet pinged the door as it closed behind them.

"Shit." Shaw scanned the corridor. They flanked Ivanov, pistols raised. Moving down the hall. "The voice in your head couldn't give you a little warning on that one?"

Reese shot her an irritated frown. They paused at the corner.

"Let me go," Ivanov growled. He cursed in Russian, glaring at them. "Are you protecting me," he continued, "or trying to kill me?"

"Haven't decided," Shaw muttered. Reese tapped his ear com.

"Can you hear me?"

Shaw watched him, tugging Ivanov into the wall as the echo of a door opening around the corner hit her ear.

"Good." Reese moved in next to her, his voice low. "My turn."

Shaw pulled Ivanov around the corner, covering their backs, gun raised.

Reese looked straight at the security camera posted on the ceiling's edge.

"Kill the lights."

A beat.

The building plunged into darkness.

* * *

 

A sleepy coffee shop. Chords of new-age music whispering over the sound system. From his stool at the window, Finch watched with detached curiosity as three suited operatives surrounded a white van.

"Tea?"

Finch shifted himself toward the voice, nodding at the young barista as she placed a mug in front of him.

"Thank you." He pressed a smile and flipped open his laptop. A brief glance at the street before hitting a number on speed dial.

Two rings.

" _Fusco_."

"Good afternoon, Detective."

There was a pause. He could hear a muffled noise. Movement. The lull of voices in the background.

" _Lemme guess. The shots reported down at the Initech building… You and the rest of the nerd herd?_ "

Finch stirred one sugar into his Sencha green, stirring it slowly.

"We may be somewhat involved."

" _Somewhat_. _Ha_. _Yeah well, tell Frick and Frack to be careful. There's three units on the way."_

Finch folded a paper napkin in half and set down the spoon.

Time to refocus the attention.

He tapped a key. Typed a line.

"The Eric Ivanov case. I understand it's been difficult to attain the appropriate evidence against Mr. Ivanov?"

There was a pause.

" _Guy's pretty much untouchable right now_. _Nothing sticks_."

Finch took a sip of his tea. Next to him, three girls spoke to each other, laughing in lowered voices.

"I trust you have access to your email?"

" _Yes…_ " A beat. Then, " _Jesus."_

In his breach of the Initech and Decima systems, Finch had stumbled across a number of emails demonstrating just how well the two Ivanov brothers had thrown each other under.

The zipped layers of blackmail originating from an anonymous email and masked IP address would have just hit the detective's inbox.

" _How the-_ "

"Mr. Ivanov may still be the Initech headquarters," Finch interrupted. He briefly raised his eyes to the window. The van was gone. "I suggest you see how quickly you can elicit a warrant."

* * *

 

Shouts echoing in darkened stairwells, unaimed bullets never landing a target.

Out of breath, dragging Ivanov, Reese and Shaw blindly reached the first floor of the corporate building.

Fluorescent lights and the din of the lobby's crowd hit Reese's head in a sudden rush. Behind him, the door to the stairwell slammed shut with an almost painful resonance.

He circled away from Shaw and Ivanov. Blinking his eyes. Waiting for the pounding to pass.

He tapped his com, masking his sidestep.

"Finch?"

No response.

He waited. Turned to Shaw.

"Looks like we're walking." His voice was low, murmured into the noise of the inner atrium. He kept close to the brick of the wall, subtly brushing his fingers against it.

They'd get Ivanov to a safe house. Regroup with Finch. Determine next steps.

He just needed some water.

Shaw eyed him, close-mouthed but suspicious. She tapped her com. "Finch," she tried.

Reese pulled out his phone. He squinted at its screen, hoped he tapped in the right code.

Shaw watched him carefully. "Reese."

He shook his head, then regretted the motion.

Her voice echoed. He kept his back to the wall.

"We need to go," he said.

_Go, go, go_.

He felt his hands go clammy. A chill, on the back of his neck. He pocketed his phone, forgetting why he'd pulled it out.

There was a siren, outside, and at first he thought nothing of it.

A swirl of nausea swallowed back.

" _Reese_."

He turned. A pack of uniformed officers, streaming through the mirrored glass.

"Shaw," he said before he blacked out, "watch your six."


	9. Chapter 9

He woke with a start, hazel eyes and freckles an inch from his face.

"Hello… Lee." Squinting. A question in the greeting.

"Do you have amnesia?"

Hovering over him, Lee Fusco looked excited at the prospect.

Reese sat up slowly. Reaching a hand to his head, frowning at the bandage there. He was in a bed, unfamiliar green walls staring at him.

His head hurt. As grogginess faded, a pressure filled its place.

"Where am I?"

"Your name is John," Lee said solemnly. Reese gave him a look, but the ten-year-old was unfazed. "You hit your head."

Reese swung his feet to the floor. Standing up, he faltered, the motion made too quickly. A hand on the wall for balance, he hung a minute. Waiting for his head to acclimate to its new altitude.

He glanced to Lee, who stared back with raised eyebrows. For a second Lee looked very much like a miniature Lionel.

"You know," Lee said, "Sameen was shot."

"Sameen," Reese repeated.

"The one who fixed your head. She had a GSW."

Reese blinked.

"That's a gunshot wound."

Clearly a head injury was not as impressive.

"Where's your dad?"

Lee tilted his head toward the doorway. "Watching TV."

"Who else is here?"

"Just us."

Reese opened the drawer to the nightstand. Empty.

"Dad had to watch me after school so he figured he might as well watch you too."

Reese raised an eyebrow. _Thanks, Lionel._ He gazed around the bedroom.

"But seriously. She was _shot_."

"She's kinda tough like that."

"Yeah." Lee shifted his weight from foot to foot, watching Reese survey the room. "What're you looking for?"

His gun. His phone.

A clue.

"Nothing." Reese glanced down to his bare feet. Frowning.

He remembered the uniforms swarming the front entrance. The look on Shaw's face. Ivanov cursing.

Then, nothing.

He wondered how long he was out.

He moved to the door.

"I wasn't in here," Lee announced, darting out in front and then turning back. Cautiously gauging the response.

"Never saw you." Reese offered a smile and then suddenly needed the doorframe as a balance. He paused, waiting for it to pass. Silence. He gave the ten-year-old a half-smile then, a test. "That didn't happen."

Lee grinned. "Never saw it."

Reese winked.

Down the muted hallway of the safe house, a television humming through the walls. " _Prosecutors say mob boss Eric Ivanov was arrested earlier this afternoon on a laundry list of charges including conspiracy, racketeering, murder of a witness, and fraud-_

Reese lingered in the doorway, watching the TV screen as Lee hurdled into the room ahead of him. A replay of the earlier scene at Initech, the newscaster's voiceover narrating Ivanov's arrest. The history of the tech company, its involvement with the organized crime family.

An interesting end for their number.

"Nice work, Lionel."

Fusco's head snapped in his direction. "Shit," the detective said, caught off-guard at the ex-op's sudden appearance. He let out an _oomph_ as his son landed knees first on the couch next to him. "Nice of you to join us."

"You said shit," Lee chided. He punched his father's arm. "Dad. You owe me a quarter."

Lionel gave Reese an accusatory look, clearly blaming him for the slip.

" _Dad_."

Reese raised his eyebrows. "You did say 'shit', Detective."

Fusco stared at him.

" _Daaad._ "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Fusco turned back to his son and pushed at his chest playfully. "You'll get your quarter, knucklehead."

The boy fell back dramatically on the couch and Fusco grabbed his sock-clad foot, tickling its sole. Lee fell off the couch in escape, his peel of laughter louder than the thud that followed.

The television broke to a commercial and Fusco sent Reese, still hanging rigidly in the doorway, a frown. "You might as well relax, pal. You and your thick skull are on house arrest." At the look, he raised his hands in mock surrender. "By order of Glasses. Not me."

"Where is Finch?"

"You think I know where you guys are until you need something?"

Reese stared at him.

"But seriously. You look like shit—"

"- _Dad!_ "

"—so you might as well get comfortable."

Reese hummed a non-verbal disagreement. Moving into the room, scanning the unfamiliar set-up as the other two argued over fifty cents. Book-lined shelves on the far wall, a giant antique clock above the heavy oak mantle of a working fireplace.

He gave a small smile at an oil painting of birds in flight above an antique credenza.

Prowling the apartment. Looking for a closet, he found two empty ones.

Moving to the kitchen. A stocked pantry.

The back bedroom. Another empty closet.

A bathroom. First aid in the cabinets.

Back to the kitchen.

Though unnecessarily lavish, the apartment was small. Reese soon found himself back in the same doorway; still without phone, gun, wallet, or shoes.

"Lionel," he said. "Where's my stuff?"

Lying supine on the floor, Lee looked suddenly disappointed, hazel eyes directing an imploring look up at Reese. "You're not staying?"

Reese shot Fusco a look. Playing dirty, bringing the kid into this. "Lionel," he repeated.

Eyebrows raised. "What."

They stared at each other.

Silence. Fusco gave an exaggerated shrug.

Reese shook his head, suddenly tired.

And the way Lee was staring at him.

In partial defeat, Reese moved into the room and dropped down onto the other end of the couch. Leaning forward for a second, elbows on his knees. Giving a pause. He could feel the pulse of blood in his ears from just the brief exertion.

Just a half hour. Then he could regroup.

He looked up. The television was back on commercials.

Leaning back, stretching his legs out. He let his head rest back against the cushion of the couch.

It wasn't a minute before there was a soft plop and the couch sank in next to him. He turned his head.

Lee.

The ten-year-old had stretched his own legs out, one elbow behind his curly head as he reclined back in a perfect mirror of Reese.

The ex-op raised his eyes to Fusco.

The detective just smirked. "You want a soda or something?"

* * *

"So omniscient supermachine number one," Shaw said, chewing as she spoke, "set up potential omniscient supermachine number two."

Finch pressed his mouth into a thin line, not entirely pleased with the cursory summation of events. He drummed his fingers briefly on the bar top. "I suppose if you-"

"Yep." Shaw swallowed and then took a swig of her beer. That pretty much summed it up, as far as she was concerned. She kept her eyes forward, but she could feel Finch's stare. "And now?"

"The numbers, Ms. Shaw." Finch put back the rest of his drink, a single malt scotch, and set it back on its coaster. Moving to stand, reaching for the leash sitting loosely in his lap. At his feet, Bear rose to a seated position, his yellow service vest a bright contrast to the dim surroundings of the pub.

Shaw held her hand out. "I'll take him."

Finch frowned.

She opened and closed her hand, knowing he was likely recollecting the last time she'd kept Bear for an extended period. Lesson learned: the barbecue sauce from Fette Sau did not agree with the Malinois.

"You've got another at the safehouse, Harold. C'mon. I'll take him for a run in the morning."

Shaw had an advantage there: the dog's only other option for a good workout was at the moment indisposed.

He paused.

She intercepted the leash and gave her employer a quick smile.

"I do hope that's not dinner?" Finch was eyeing the glass of crisped bacon slices she'd been snacking on since they had first sat. The establishment's own unique version of cocktail peanuts.

A stare.

"Right. Of course not." A small smile. Amused. "Good evening, Ms. Shaw."

Alone. A minute passed. Shaw downed her own beer, negating another when she caught the bartender eying her.

She shook her head, reaching for a last piece of bacon. Glancing down at the dog. "What do you say, handsome? Chinese at my place?"

Bear's tail swished against the floor in soft agreement.

"Good choice." She wiped a hand on her pant leg and gave the dog a quick scratch behind an ear as she stood. "Let's blow this Popsicle stand."

She was laying money on the bar and lacing the leash around her wrist when a familiar female voice floated out from behind them.

"Leaving so soon?"

Shaw turned.

"I thought we'd grab that drink," Root said. She tossed her hair behind a shoulder, regarding Shaw with a small smile.

Shaw exchanged a look with Bear and then gazed back at the other woman, unimpressed. "Root."

Another smile. Root patted the seat that Shaw had recently vacated, slipping onto the barstool next to it.

Shaw shot another look to the dog.

"My treat."

A pause.

"Fine," Shaw said finally, letting out a breath as she settled back into the chair, "but that includes food."

The smile widened. "I thought you'd never ask."

Shaw rolled her eyes. She signaled to the bartender.

He looked a little too pleased.

"Johnnie Walker." A glance to Root. "Blue."

"Same." Unprovoked. "Besides," Root said, pulling a strand of her dampened curl as proof, "it's starting to rain."

Shaw glanced to the window, the rain peppering its pane. Umbrellas moving along the street. She felt a soft touch to her arm and turned, pulling back. A frown.

Root was nodding to the bandage peering out from under Shaw's short sleeve black tee. The side nearest to her. "You okay?"

"Yes." She shrugged the inquiry off, reaching for another slice of bacon. She bit off half and then slipped the remainder to Bear. "Fine."

A look. That tilt of the head.

"I'm _fine_ , Root."

A clank. The bartender setting down drinks.

A beat.

Root took her tumbler, holding it up.

Shaw rolled her eyes again, but tapped her glass against Root's in a silent toast. She took a swallow.

"So is this what you're doing now? Interfering with our numbers?"

"If only," Root said. A soft laugh. She shook her head. "Too much work to be done."

"What kind of work?"

"Preparation."

"Your table's ready." A voice behind them.

Shaw shifted in her seat, noting the expectant waitress holding two menus. She shot Root a look.

The other woman shrugged. An innocent smile.

"Thought you wouldn't mind."

* * *

"-I told you, Lionel, Finch doesn't mind."

Finch frowned at that, the first words he heard upon entering the safe house. Pulling the door shut and locking it behind him, he shook out his umbrella, leaning it behind the door.

"Finch doesn't mind what?"

He needn't have asked: the small football leaving Reese's hand and flying overhead was enough of an answer.

Lee, apparent receiver, spun around at the question. The ball, intended for his now dropping hands, flew over the curly head in slow motion; Finch watched, speechless, as it met with a colorful piece of antique pottery.

A shatter.

A stunned stillness. The soft tick of a clock from the other room.

Finch, staring at the broken remains. Steadying himself. "That," he said, slowly, "was a 19th century Satsuma from the Meiji periodic."

No one spoke.

He fixed his stare on Reese, who was motionless on the couch. "Mr. Reese."

There was a cautious pause.

"Finch."

Fusco cleared his throat awkwardly. "I think that's our cue," he started, already on his feet. Sending Reese a sympathetic look, steering an open-mouthed Lee away from the jagged shards of the ceramic remains.

An adamant whisper from Lee, the boy's eyes going to Reese. A hushed response from Fusco, a firm corralling. The sound of the door opening and closing.

Then, silence. There was a barely audible roll of thunder.

"Buy you another?"

Finch shot Reese a look. _Really_?

"Sorry."

Finch looked back to the once-vase and shook his head. In truth, it had no sentimental value. It had come from an estate sale, the pieces auctioned off together in a lot and bought by a Harold Partridge, some time ago.

The item in particular was only appraised somewhere around, oh, seven thousand dollars.

He pressed his lips together. Shifted the strap of the messenger bag on his shoulder.

"Sorry," Reese repeated, as if he hadn't been heard the first time.

Finch cast him a tired stare. He shifted his stance, surveying the rest of the apartment. Everything in its place. Looking back to Reese.

"Feeling a little cooped up here, Finch."

"You've been out of the field for all of-" A glance at his watch, a small shake of the head. "-three hours. You couldn't just… watch a movie or something?"

A half-shouldered shrug.

"In fact." Finding the television remote. Holding it out. "Pick one."

A moment passed, the remote hanging between them.

Reese realized then his employer was serious.

"Finch."

He made no move to take the controller.

"The case is done," Finch said. Gently now, the reproach fading from his tone. "If you must know, Ms. Shaw wanted to drug you."

It went unsaid: _Don't make me regret stopping her._

"Shaw isn't even a real doctor, Finch. She just plays one when it suits her."

A raised brow. "I'd be happy to procure the services of a more licensed practitioner if you think it's in your best interest."

A frown, but Reese took the remote.

Finch lowered his bag next to a checkered armchair.

He had little doubt: the unnecessarily violent martial arts movie, poorly dubbed and shallowly plotted, was chosen that night for his benefit.

Later, a jerk of movement. A muffled gasp.

Finch looked up from his post in the armchair. Almost nodding off himself, he had moved on to work when Reese had fallen asleep before the film's first poorly choreographed action sequence.

The ex-op was awake now, albeit spooked and sleep-tranced. Reaching for a non-existent weapon, stiffly upright.

Reese never spoke of the nightmares.

"John," Finch started, ready to break him from the reverie. At the same time, there was a low chime from the laptop across his knees. He glanced down.

A pop-up window of unfamiliar text had him frowning. He'd been digging deeper into the earlier code, burrowing down the proverbial rabbit hole.

He glanced up, checking on the state of Reese. He found blue eyes carefully watching him.

Reading him too easily.

"It's nothing." Disconnecting, closing the screen. He tapped his fingers on its case. Schooling an expression of disinterest. "Code," he said.

He looked up again. Reese had absently raised a hand to his bandaged temple. It dropped when he found Finch watching him.

Sounding distant. "Another number?"

Finch shook his head. Slipping the laptop back into its bag, already regretting his choice of armchair over table. "I'm not sure what it is," he admitted. A pause. He watched Reese. "But it's not what concerns me at the moment."

There was a pause. "No?"

A loud pop. They both looked to the television. On screen, one master ninja had burst the head of another.

At least, Finch assumed they were ninjas.

He grimaced.

Utterly ridiculous.

Looking back to Reese. "No…" he repeated.

Reese gazed back, squinting slightly. They stared at each other a moment.

No. Even years into it, he sometimes questioned why it was they risked their own lives for the benefit of others. And with a firm like Decima now clawing for access-

Finch shook his head.

It was late. The day had been long. It wasn't time to start down that path. Reese looked ready to fall asleep again, his eyes shadowed in the soft glow of the television.

"Finch?"

"This film, Mr. Reese," Finch said finally, nodding his head to the movie. He gave Reese a slanted smile. "We need to discuss your taste in cinema."

* * *

_Two days later_

A grainy security feed played out on the monitor. There was an explosion, a fiery upturning of an armored truck.

Shaw hummed in approval over Finch's shoulder and he shifted sideways in his seat, delivering her a frown.

"Do you think this type of display wise, Ms. Shaw?"

She snorted.

Finch gave her a look.

"Really," she said, and then shook her head when she saw he wasn't getting it. "I'm not your only problem child, Finch."

Finch looked back to the surveillance feed. He slowly reached out, pausing the sequence. His expression changed.

Shaw continued. "Where do you think my grenade launchers even come from?"

He eyed her then. She raised her eyebrows.

When the gate rattled, they both turned.

Reese slowed his entrance as the two pairs of eyes locked in. He came around the table, setting down a box of donuts, a lidded cup of tea. Giving Shaw a practiced, _Sorry, didn't know you'd be here_ , shrug as he sipped his own coffee.

Peering at the screen, the grainy freeze-frame. The armored truck, paused halfway in flight. Reese raised his eyebrows, expression giving away nothing. He reached for a donut.

"John."

He glanced at Finch.

"I don't suppose you would know anything about this."

Reese flicked his eyes back to the scene on the monitor as he bit into the pastry.

"Looks… professional," he offered, shifting back his stance. He pressed a small smile at his employer.

Finch stared back, not sharing the amusement. He could tell by Reese's stance that the younger man was still on the unsteady side.

From behind, a scoff. "Professional? Idiot didn't even realize there was a security camera on the post."

Reese turned to land Shaw a warning look of his own, allowing sprinkles to fall from his donut onto the floor. Bear leapt up from his bed, snuffing around his shoes with a wagging tail.

"Bear," Reese said. "Braaf."

"Mr. Reese."

He looked back to Finch, who was still watching him carefully.

"I fail to appreciate your definition of 'surveillance'." Finch half-turned, a swivel of his upper body. Facing back to the monitors. "But we'll leave that for now. We have another number."

"Finally," Shaw said through a mouthful of donut. "Was beginning to think your machine was broken, Harold."

"Me too," Finch murmured. Words only he could hear. Leaning forward, fingers steepled under his chin as he stared at the screen. The small pop-up of coding was back. A stream of unfamiliar functions, then a flicker.

_What are you doing_ , he thought.

"Finch?" Reese had pulled another chair up. Rolling closer. Looking over his employer's shoulder, an elbow propped next to the keyboard.

Looking, but not noting the unordinary.

Finch didn't give it the time either; he quickly flipped open a different window. He could feel Reese's eyes flick to him but focused on bringing up what he had found so far on the newest number.

"Finch." Murmured.

He turned his head. They exchanged a look.

"Rain's stopped," Shaw commented. At the quiet, she looked back at them, the head to head. Sensed she was missing something. "What."

"Natalia Brennan," Finch said. He tapped Reese's elbow, gently gaining back some personal space. Ignoring the frown. "Sixteen years old. Attends The Dalton School."

Shaw made a gagging noise and they both looked at her.

"Snobby," she explained.

Finch gave her a look- _Really?_ \- and continued. "Older brother at NYU." A glance to Shaw, as though waiting for her opinion on that one. She pressed a sarcastic smile at him. "Father. No mother."

He continued, filling in what he knew. It wasn't much to go on.

Later, alone in the Library, Finch glanced to Bear. The dog lifted its head.

Rolling back his chair. "Should we go for a walk?"

Bear let out a soft, excited whine. Tail already wagging.

Finch smiled thinly, getting stiffly to his feet. He reached for the leash. Light streamed in through the large front windows, the beams brighter through the parting clouds. He blinked, glancing once more at the workstation. The unfamiliar, racing code.

He gave a slight shake of his head.

The rain was done, for now. But he sensed the storm was only just beginning.


End file.
